#if anyone wants a bones collection lmk i might consider it

[tricorderreading]

Book covers, Spock edition

Click here to see the captain kirk version of this post!

Yes this is quite a few more than Kirk's, I don't think I did all of the ones for him yet, I might make another post. I just love sharing them, an artist put time and effort into each book cover. I'm not sure, would they qualify as 'fan art' tho? 🤔

In a lot of ways I think of the pocket books that were published like fanfiction, just with a large scale production/additional steps. iirc there was fanfic sharing going on at that time, too! the books were also made for profit from the publishing house, which is quite different to uploading on ao3 lol, so the book covers and books might not be considered "fan content" in the same way, you know?

[diamondsareapearlsbestfriend]

Bonely This Gyftmas

finally posting my contribution to the @sorieldiscord​ (not so) Secret Santa for a Good Clown Pal, @purpleangrywitches !! belated Merry Gyftmas my dude, I hope you like it~~   shoutout to the wonderful @drawingwithgreen13​  for helping me out with some parts of this and of course @mintkupocream​ for organising this exchange for us!! ^w^;; FellSoriel is something I’ve wanted to try for a while now so hopefully this turned out okay! (basically “more cursing and everyone is tsundere” lmao - that’s how you Underfell, right?? anyway yeah feel free to lmk your thoughts etc!! <3)

on AO3

Another Gyftmas in Snowdin – not that it really meant anything, any more than any other “season” did in the Underground. Snow was a permanent fixture, and so was the threadbare pine tree in the centre of town, the only difference being the half-assed decorations and dimly flickering lights draped about its branches, and the kids still young or dumb enough to gather around it and casting hopeful glances at the parcels underneath. If Sans had it in him to care, he might even have felt bad for the little shits, watching the light die in their eyes year after year at the meagre offering, until that one bear who hung around the tree “arranging” the presents all day growled at them til and they beat it.

Other than that, it was same shit, different day – Papyrus didn’t believe in holidays, and as he never tired of harshly but not incorrectly pointing out, Sans did so little that his entire existence was basically one big break. He was more than happy to live up, or down, to his boss’ expectations, taking every opportunity to slip away from his post and deep into the forest where, at least, he had the promise of more interesting company.

“Yo, anyone alive in there?” he asked the door, rapping his phalanges against the ancient wood and sliding into the routine as easily as he did into the snow. “Why did Sally fall off the swing?”

“Oh, now you are here?” The response was curt, even for her. “How profoundly lucky am I to be graced with your presence.”

Sans scoffed, lifting a brow bone as he leaned back against the door; Door Lady was crankier than usual tonight. It was gonna be a fun one. “Geez, lady, someone rattle your chain or what? ‘Scuse me if I missed the memo on the fuckin’...school timetable or whatever this is.”

“Hardly. But you have been stopping by approximately the same time for the last three nights – it is called setting a precedent. And surely even you should know it is impolite to keep a lady waiting.”

“Good job it’s just you, then, ain’t it?” Sans snickered as he could practically feel her unamused glare through the thick, battle-dented wood that separated them. “Now do you wanna hear about Sally or what?” (He was actually sorta proud of this one; he’d been saving it for a worthy audience, and those weren’t easy to come by.)

“I suppose,” the lady answered, the slightest hint of a pout in her voice. “Why did she fall off the swing?”

“‘Cause she had no arms.”

“Oh.” A beat went by. “Well, that was a little lacking, even for –“

“Knock knock.”

She huffed an irritable sigh. “Who is there?”

“Dunno, but it ain’t Sally.”

That finally got the reaction he wanted as a snort rumbled through the door, followed by her throaty cackle - long, low and filthy, it sent a shiver of satisfaction through Sans as he chuckled with her. Making her laugh always felt like a victory, somehow. “Oh, how unfortunate,” she drawled, sugary sweet and dripping with contempt for the imaginary kid. “She was one of the lucky ones.”

“Don’t sweat it, she’s totally armless.”

“I suppose that really put her out on a limb.”

“I’d say you gotta hand it to her, but…”

Their snorts and guffaws rang out through the barren forest, sounds it probably didn’t hear often and that definitely would have aroused suspicion, but not many monsters ever wandered this deep into the forest anyway. “All she wants for Gyftmas,” Sans continued, on a roll, “is a break.”

The lady still laughed, but a little less heartily this time. “Oh, is it that time of the year already? I would not know - such things tend to pass one by when every day is much the same as the last one. How nice for those of you with something to celebrate.”

“Yeah, right.” She had a point, Sans had to admit, with a dry, sarcastic snicker. “Don’t mean shit to me either, but I guess it’s somethin’ for the kiddos. ‘Least, til they get old enough to figure out there ain’t no miracle happening any time soon to get us out of this hellhole.”

Weird thing was, he couldn’t even remember being a kid like that himself, a time when he didn’t understand how the world worked - with his HP, he’d had to wise up pretty fast or he’d be long dusted. But he did remember walking hand in hand with Papyrus through the snow - way back  when he was still shorter than Sans and either of them might ever have considered such a display acceptable - and how his brother used  to getso excited he’d almost tripped over his boots until Sans yanked him upright, and let himself be dragged towards the presents at top speed before they all got snatched away. But before they started, Papyrus would always pause to look up at their pathetic excuse for a tree, his sockets sparkling with hope and wonder as if it was the most amazing thing he’d seen since - well, last Gyftmas, as astounding as the stars they’d never get to see.

Might’ve been the last time Gyftmas meant something.

“Yes, well.” Door Lady gave a dismissive snort, snapping him back to reality. “What use have I for such child’s play? The last few foolish enough to wander through my door...well, suffice to say they are long gone.”

That, somehow, didn’t surprise Sans, but noticing her slightly sharper tone, he decided against pointing it out. “Hey, look on the bright side. Maybe this year one of the suckers that throws themselves down here’ll get lucky enough not to make it, and you got you a real nice traditional Gyftmas dinner.”

She hummed, a long, low noise somewhere between intrigue and what almost sounded like desire. “Mmm, I do hope not. Fresh prey always tastes better when it puts up a little struggle, does it not?”

Not for the first time, Sans wasn’t totally sure whether she was kidding – and he kinda liked it. He was pretty good, usually, at reading people, picking up on the little pauses and stutters that most assumed he was too dumb and/or lazy to notice. It was a good way to survive, being able to see through the bullshit, but it also took some of the fun out of seeing how far he could push it when he knew to the second how close Papyrus was to throwing a steaming plate of lasagna in his face.

Door Lady was...different. Probably helped that he had no idea who or even what kind of monster she was, of course, but even though they’d fallen into a thing of telling jokes and talking shit to pass the time, her mood seemed to swing back and forth a hell of a lot more than the door ever did. Some days he just seemed to irritate her, and she’d snap that if he wasn’t going to entertain her, he might as well go off and not do his job elsewhere. Which, whatever - wasn’t like that was anything Sans didn’t hear on a daily basis anyway, but in a weird way her unpredictability was part of the thrill. Made it all the more satisfying when he did get to hear her laugh. And damn, her laugh...

True to form, she dismissed him not long after that, saying she had business to attend to and she was sure he must be terribly busy with Gyftmas preparations for his beloved brother. They shared a sarcastic chuckle at that, but hers had sounded a shade darker than usual - bitter, almost.

Maybe he’d said something to annoy her (unintentionally, mostly) or she was getting bored with him, or - well, whatever, wasn’t Sans’ problem. She was just a voice behind a door, a convenient distraction. None of it meant anything.

He was sharp enough to know by now that you didn’t survive long by imagining it did.

Days went by, and the pile of presents under Snowdin’s tree grew steadily bigger. How many of them would actually make it to Gyftmas unopened was another story, especially if there was anything that the thriftier locals might be able to sell on to Muffet or one of her goons, but whether it was the prospect of more gold or just the place looking a little less of a dump, people did seem happier, or at least less likely to metaphorically or literally snap your skull off for looking at them funny.

Sans had his own reasons for keeping a socket on the gyfts, his grin tugging a little wider when he spotted the telltale gleam of curiosity in his bro-slash-boss’ sockets as they passed the tree every day – not, of course, that the Great and Terrible Papyrus would ever admit to the slightest interest in such things. Gyftmas was for baby bones, Sans, he’d better not be thinking of wasting their hard-earned gold on such frivolous nonsense.

He said the same every year, and every year Sans ignored him, because he still couldn’t think of many better ways to spend his gold than adding to his brother’s now-substantial collection of action figures - if only to catch the briefest glimpse of surprise and excitement flicker across his features, just like when they were baby bones, before it hastily rearranged into his usual scowl. He’d sigh and roll his sockets and mutter something about how if Sans really wanted to help he’d buy him something actually useful, like that new stove they so desperately needed, while mysteriously never getting around to selling the figures that had stood artfully arranged on his desk for years. Sans would shrug and pretend to believe him, while slurping extra appreciatively and obnoxiously from the extra-large bottle of mustard that appeared under the tree for him every year from some mysterious benefactor.

It wasn’t much, but it was their thing – tradition, even, if you wanted to call it that –  and maybe about as close as he ever got to feeling...safe. Comfortable – not, obviously, that Sans or Papyrus or anyone in the Underground with half a brain cell would ever acknowledge it. You sure as shit didn’t survive long down here by laying your soft spots bare for anyone to rip into.

Sans might be a good-for-nothing lazy lump of bones and countless other more colourful terms, by his own admission, but he wasn’t stupid – and yet for some reason, he’d kinda thought that maybe it’d be cool to be able to tell someone about the time he’d had to shove that deluxe Mettaton action figure into his jacket before Papyrus got in (that ultra realistic chainsaw stung like a bitch) or the priceless look of pure terror on that one kid’s face when his mom told him Krampus would be coming for him if he didn’t quit tripping over his tail. Really, he probably should’ve known Door Lady wouldn’t wanna hear about that – or much of anything he had to say, lately. There’d definitely been laughter and a lot more snapping and sighing and the the glare of barely concealed irritation he could practically feel through the door.

If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect she had some kind of issue around the whole Gyftmas thing – bad memories, pretty much everyone was carrying something, or maybe she just hated the idea of other people having fun. But it was an even bigger waste of time than usual, and not the fun kind, to wonder about it – everyone knew you didn’t talk about these things, didn’t trust people outside your closest family (if you were lucky or unlucky, depending on your perspective, enough to have any) with anything the slightest bit personal, and you didn’t get involved with other people’s baggage unless you’d come prepared for a fight. Sans was too tired to start shit; he’d been too tired for most things for a long time, even if she kept wandering into his skull at the most inconvenient times, and he’d catch himself wondering what her deal was. What had happened to the lady with the dirtiest dead baby jokes and even dirtier laugh, the one who made sentry duty with the boss breathing down his clavicle sorta bearable, because – if he was dumb enough to consider being honest with himself or anyone else – he might have been starting to miss her.

The smart thing would’ve been to cut his losses and move on, since he’d obviously outlived his entertainment value and there were plenty other places in the Underground he could nap or jack up the price of hot dogs to a more appreciative (or nonexistent) audience.

Thing was, Sans wasn’t stupid, but he also was never big on doing whatever he was supposed to.

It was, by Toriel’s estimation, the night before Gyftmas. A fact she would not have known, nor would she have cared to know, had it not been for her...friend? It still seemed absurd to think of him as such, a disembodied voice with no face nor name, and yet he was probably the closest equivalent she had had for decades, perhaps centuries, or however long it had been since the term meant anything.

Perhaps visitor was more appropriate;  a moderately amusing, yet inevitably temporary distraction from the tedium of her day-to-day life. Toriel was not alone in the Ruins – she had seen the monsters scurry away into the shadows each day when she swept through the halls, her sharp eyes scanning every corner and crevice for anyone foolish enough to have fallen into her domain, but that was exactly how she wanted it, was it not? The last thing in the world she needed were these snivelling, pitiful little Froggits and Whimsuns getting attached to her in any way, getting under her feet and clutching at her paw. Heaven knew, her nurturing days were long behind her.

Fear was power – as the former queen of the Underground surely knew better than anyone – and having vacated her throne, it was the only sort of power she could hope to yield these days. Yet, she could not quite put her paw on when it had all started to feel...empty. As empty as the Ruins, for all their inhabitants, might well have been when she was around, and empty as the many rooms she no longer had any use for, sitting untouched gathering dust for years. Though she did not care to admit it, her visitor had reminded her of that; of just how good it felt to laugh again, even playfully trading insults. His lack of fear, casual disregard for the authority she would never disclose to him – she could not help but welcome the change, and occasionally found herself anticipating her daily surveillance more than she ever imagined she would, her ears pricking up almost without her permission at those first few raps on the old forest door.

He had been reminding her of many things, as of late, and there were many, many things Toriel did not care to remember, this and any other time of year. At first, she had tried to find it endearing, in a simple-minded way, listening to him prattle on about Snowdin’s Gyftmas preparations with a unmistakable note of fondness that belied his professions of indifference. Yet it was much more difficult to conceal her disgust, much less pretend to be as amused as her visitor was when he turned to stories of the “Krampus” Snowdin residents, in particular, seemed to take such delight in threatening their children with. Of course, she thought bitterly, paying the least amount of attention possible as her visitor recounted the story of one little brat who had seen his presents dissolve into fire magic before his ungrateful eyes, the fool would persist in playing ridiculous games instead of attempting to restore the smallest modicum of hope to his people that no doubt still suffered and squabbled and tore each other apart every day, as they had for centuries.

Pathetic, utterly pathetic – well, let them suffer. Toriel had abdicated her part in the whole sorry charade long ago, and she certainly had not returned to the Ruins to discuss her former husband. She could never be so careless as to let the slightest hint of her true identity slip through the door, of course; any sentry worth his salt would immediately run off with such sensitive information, throwing it out for as much gold as they could get to the many Royal Guards out for her head. As much as she sometimes welcomed the idea of a fight – an opportunity to unleash centuries’ worth of anger and frustration by turning all Asgore’s lackeys to dust – preserving the relative peace and safety she had here was her best hope, if she imagined she would feel such a thing again.

Peace she certainly had, as her visitor had not stopped by for the last two days. Toriel had wondered idly whether he was busy, although she had gathered that his interpretation of “busy” was most often not having time for a nap and drinking copious amounts of mustard on one of his many lunch breaks. Regardless, it was no business of hers; they had no formal obligations to one another, although she had briefly toyed with enlisting him as her eyes on the outside, but that idea now held little appeal. In truth, she could not claim to be surprised if he had finally tired of her pointed remarks and taken his business – or lack thereof – elsewhere, just like the rest of them.

Good riddance, she ought to have thought, for it could have been nothing more than habit that carried her back to the halls, vanquishing the cobwebs with her broom and taking small satisfaction in the startled squeaks of the gold-grubbing spiders dangling from the ceiling, until she reached the familiar, well-worn door. Toriel sighed, shaking her head at the now futile, yet automatic stirring of anticipation in her soul as she nonetheless tapped her claws half-heartedly against the old wood. There was no reason for him to come by tonight, she had not even bothered to suggest it last time they’d talked, so she did not know why...

“Who’s there?”

“...Oh.” Toriel faltered for a moment, blinking foolishly at the door; having not actually anticipated a response, she had not come prepared with a suitable joke. “Old – old lady.”

“No shit. Old lady who?”

“I did not know you could yodel.”

The joke was much more innocent than their usual exchanges - and ancient, almost as much as Toriel herself, but when it elicited a familiar gravelly chuckle she felt herself relax a little, her own muzzle curling into a smile. “Lady, there’s a lotta things you don’t know about me.”

Well, that was certainly true for the both of them, and yet she felt a peculiar kind of relief, a warmth settling over her like an old, scratchy but nevertheless comforting blanket as she sank into a sitting position, leaning back against the door with her paws clasped around her knees as she awaited his response.

“‘Kay, I got one. Why didn’t the skeleton go to the Gyftmas party?”

“I cannot imagine why.”

“He had nobody to go with.”

“Oh, that is truly dreadful,” Toriel snorted, her braying laugh echoing through the empty Ruins - so dreadful it was genius, and actually her favourite kind of joke since she was a young girl, like a distant whisper of simpler times. She would not tell her fr - visitor that, though, for he was surely smug enough as it is.

“C’mon, it’s a bone-cold classic. Hey, uh, speaking of...” As their laughter slowly died away, she heard him scuffling about in the snow, followed by what sounded like the crinkling of paper, “don’t get mushy on me or nothing, but I found this lyin’ around and I thought maybe - uh - here, just take it…”

An even louder snort escaped her at that, though more of disbelief than anything. “My goodness. You have not brought me a gyft?”

She was waiting for some punchline or other, but instead a rectangular object, crudely covered by a few sheets of old newspaper, poked its way through the small space under the door before jamming halfway through, causing the old wood to give an almighty creak. Toriel simply scoffed and rolled her eyes at the soft grunt of exertion and his poor attempt to shove it through the space, a little sorry he could not witness the full effect of her disdain.

“A flawlessly executed delivery,” she observed, deadpan. “Here, just let me -"

She grasped the sides of the package and tugged, and after a moment’s struggle it slid free and her fingertips brushed against something else. Slight and bony, yet surprisingly warm, they were unmistakably fingers - his fingers, and that briefest of contact sent an unexpected jolt of electricity up Toriel’s arm and through her magic as she immediately pulled her paw away as though she had burned herself on the stove.

Hurriedly, she turned her attention to the object in hand, her claws making short work of the wrapping (if one could call it that) to reveal its contents.

“Human Hunting with Fluffy Bunny,” she read, arching an eyebrow in bemusement at the sight of a simplistic cartoon rabbit, proudly bearing an axe in its teeth while holding up a distressed-looking head. “...What? Why in the world are you giving me this?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome,” her visitor retorted, effortlessly bouncing back her own sarcasm in a way she could not help but smirk a little at. “It’s the boss’ fave, y’know. Swiped it fresh from the librarby.”

She was about to correct his abysmal pronunciation, but as she idly drummed her claws over the bunny’s face, Toriel felt a few joints slide into place in her mind, and the revelation hit her: “Wait a moment. It is you. You are the skeleton.”

There was a long, protracted silence, more than enough to confirm her suspicions. “...Heh. Welp, congrats, lady. Finally saw through me, huh?”

His tone remained flippant as ever, but having many centuries’ experience of keeping and guarding secrets, Toriel easily detected the tremor in his voice, that potentially fatal moment of hesitation as he waited to see how she might leverage this new-found information against him. Though, honestly, it ought to have been of no interest to her whatsoever - the species of a lowly sentry mattered not in the slightest. It was her identity that may have been compromised by that...moment of contact, her hand reflexively curling into a fist as she recalled how very tiny and fragile his fingers - phalanges - felt against her own; to her simultaneous embarrassment and immense relief that the man on the other side could not see her, Toriel became aware that the warmth was rising to her cheeks as well. This was ridiculous - had it truly been so long since she had touched another monster, however briefly or inadvertently, that it should affect her this much?

“Hmmm. How very interesting,” she mused, elongating the vowels to regain most of her composure through drawing out the wait, and rather wishing she might be able to see him squirm. “It has been such a long time since I have seen one of your kind. Why, I would not have been surprised to hear you had all died out some decades ago.”

He let out a gruff chuckle, perhaps just a touch more defensive than usual. “Well, maybe there ain’t too many of us left, but lemme assure ya, lady: calcium’s tough stuff.”

“Now that I think about it, it does explain a lot. Of course, only a genuine bonehead could consider this an appropriate gift for a fully grown woman.” Fully grown and considerably larger than him, as she now understood, although it did not explain quite why that thought lingered in her mind as it did.

He laughed more fully at that, a sound she had come to savour; it sounded a little like he was gargling rocks. For all Toriel knew, he may have been. Perhaps it was a common skeleton practice.

“Okay, geez - you don’t want it? Just slide it on back to me and -”

“No,” Toriel protested, a little more forcefully than she’d intended as she protectively clasped Fluffy Bunny to her chest - it was absurd, she knew, but any book she had not read a hundred times over was indeed a rare and precious commodity. Plus...it was a gyft. However unsatisfactory, one did not simply throw such things back in someone’s face...or under the door, as the case may be. “I mean, I...I want to know what happens.”

She did not need to see her visitor to be absolutely certain that his grin was now at its smuggest. Even more curiously, she was discovering, it was infectious. “Gotcha. No spoilers. Lucky we already got, like, five copies back home - trust me, you do not wanna try sending Boss to bed without his bun. Huh, right, guess I should…” Toriel heard the creak of the door as he got up, followed by a barely audible popping noise and a soft, satisfied sigh; stretching out his bones, she supposed, now more curious as to what it might look like than she ever imagined being. “G’night, lady. And, uh...happy -“

“Do not,” Toriel interrupted, before he could say it, but she could summon no sincere vitriol in her voice and he simply chuckled knowingly.

“See ya ‘round.”

Neither of them had any need for such sentiment, and Toriel carried no more affection for the season back to her empty house than she had left with.

But perhaps, she reflected, walking briskly back through the Ruins with her first real gyft in centuries carefully tucked under her arm and the remnants of a smile lingering on her lips - of all the Gyftmases she had still to endure, some of them might be a little less...bonely.