#if anyone was wondering lmao

[miasmaghoul]

Hiii could we get Mount and any ghoulette/ghoul of your choice slow dancing to cute music while under the stars? Thank you 🩷

-🐬

"You have terrible rhythm."

"I do not!"

Aurora scowls, arms crossed over her chest. Mountain raises an eyebrow, staring down at the little ghoulette. She tries to look threatening, despite him having at least two feet on her. Mountain seems unaffected.

"It's a basic waltz, Ro," he chuckles, striding over to reset the turntable for what must be the hundredth time tonight. "You just have to count to four."

"Says the drummer," she grumbles, picking at a cuticle. "With the mile long legs."

"And yet you're the one stepping on toes," he teases, gesturing at his newly scuffed boots. "I think my point stands."

Aurora sticks her tongue out at him and Mountain lets out a snort. Leans down to tuck a stray pale lavender curl behind her ear. It's the color of the week, matches her nails and eyeshadow and makes the silvery sheen of her eyes stand out. She's pouting at him, but Mountain still rubs their noses together.

"It's alright, petal." He takes her hand in his and brushes his lips over her knuckles. "You're still learning, and I've got all night. After all," he gestures at their surroundings, "this is just for you."

It's true, and a light dusting of pink crests Aurora's cheeks at the sincerity in his eyes.

The outdoor pavilion - usually reserved for celebrations and formal events - is truly a sight to behold tonight. Decked out in fairy lights and flowering vines that fill the summer air with with the heady scent of jasmine and wisteria, the only other light provided by the waning moon and sparkling stars overhead. A surprise, Mountain had told her. A little something just for her - dinner and dancing under the stars.

Except Aurora can't dance. At least not like this.

"I know," she mutters, straightening her skirt. She's glad she chose this dress - a flowy, sleeveless number in the palest shade of green, the hem embroidered with a vaguely floral design. It's Mountain's favorite. "I just..." she crosses her ankles, fidgets with one of her rings. "I thought I'd be better at it, is all."

Mountain tilts his head, hooks his thumbs in his pockets. He looks nice too, dressed in a light beige button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dark jeans. Casual, but elegant in a way that suits him. The gold flecks in his emerald eyes stand out in the glow of the lights around them, as do the auburn streaks in his mousy hair. He looks beautiful, and it makes Aurora's belly warm to know it's just for her.

"You just started," Mountain rumbles, "no one's perfect without practice, Ro."

"I know, I know." She shakes her head, chews the inside of her cheek. "But I've seen you dance with Cu," she admits, quiet, "and she's so...so good, and I don't know why I can't -"

"Snowflake," Mountain interrupts, resting those huge hands on her slight shoulders, "do you know why Cumulus can dance like that?"

Aurora shakes her head, shifting foot to foot. Mountain's looking down at her with a gleam in his eye, a curl at the corner of his mouth.

"It's her vessel."

Aurora raises an eyebrow.

"The body Cumulus claimed when she was summoned," he explains and, well, she knows what a vessel is, but Mountain continues before she can balk. "It belonged to a ballroom dancer."

Aurora blinks up at him.

"Not exclusively, of course," he continues, "she also used to lead the human choir, but -"

"Really?"

She can't help the interruption. It's just such a surprise; she knows that most ghouls inherit skills possessed by the humans whose forms they inhabit, but she never would have guessed that was something Cumulus got.

"Really," Mountain confirms with a nod, his hands drifting down her sides to rest on her hips. "So I think it's safe to say you're making an unfair comparison."

"What did my body - my vessel used to do?" She can't help the curiosity, she's yet to find anything she's good at besides singing. "Did you know her too?"

"Hmm..." Mountain traces her hip bones while he considers the question, and it gives her the tinglies. "I think she worked in the kitchens, but since you could burn cereal..."

"Hey!" She gives his chest a playful slap and Mountain grins.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding." The ghoul leans down again, nuzzles the crown of her head. "I'm not sure, Ro, but don't worry." He stands again, his smile kind. "You'll find your thing, I'm sure of it."

Mountain leans down for a quick kiss, and Aurora rolls up onto her tiptoes to meet him. She can still taste the wine they shared on his lips.

"But for now," he murmurs, stepping close enough to rest a hand on her lower back, "may I have this dance?"

Aurora flashes him a toothy smile, getting her hands in their proper places. She flicks a finger towards the record player, sends a gust of cool wind to knock the needle into place, and Mountain hums in approval.

"We'll start slower this time, alright?" Aurora nods, settles into his gentle hold. "Just follow my lead."

The music flows around them, carried by the sweet summer breeze, and as Mountain counts out the steps Aurora hopes this night never ends.

[lunchtimebedamned1997]

Y'all ever love a character too much to draw them???

Like oml I adore them but... I get the art scaries so bad with them that it usually doesn't even occur to me that I could XD

[linterteatime]

Greenpath enemies! Im going to go by each area for each post for the common enemies :]

More gijinkas here!

[altschmerzes]

if the only time you bring up A Secret Third Thing is when someone has suggested generally celebrating or uplifting platonic/queerplatonic fictional relationships in spaces that ordinarily obsess about romantic ones to the exclusion of all else perhaps consider why you’re doing that and also stop.

[chitinleg]

got him off-balance!

[sketchy-tour]

HELLO HI HELLO I AM!!! RECOVERING CURRENTLY!!!!

So I haven't posted in a small moment and planned to get myself going again soon but right now I am recovering from an accident (I won't get into the nitty gritty) that has left me quite shaken. FIRST OFF I AM OKAY! Minor injuries so nothing alarming I am physically fine besides being sore for a bit and some scrapes and bruises that are still healing, including my arms which is making drawing a bit difficult. I'm slowly getting better but cant really draw for long periods and honestly I might not draw much for a bit till I feel better both physically and mentally. its the mentally part that might take some time. But I'm resting, rest assured!

ANYWAY this is more just an update cause I know i've been a lil absent. ESPECIALLY after this accident. I'm not abandoning the blog by any means, def still check on tumblr but couldn't seem to muster the energy to interact with much at the moment as my brain is a little rattled up.

I hope yall are all okay! I hope your days are bright and yall are taking care of yourselves!

I promise I'm doing what I can to take care of me!

[tsubomiiiii]

I present to yall, some silly self indulgent au about mythical creatures and stuff, starring these silly hogs

And some more goobers! And more to come hopefully

[brew-berry-a-trash-artist]

There’s no place he can’t nibble his way out of

[vixen-tech]

Crossover Mayhem!

What's better than having one lovable robot in your house? Having eight in your house! How do they interact, how do they feel about each other, and just how did they get here?

Spolier alert but that last one is never answered, just enjoy some assorted silly self-indulgent headcanons in celebration of my first fic, Human's Touch, reaching 1,000 notes! As well as an official end to my hiatus

Includes: AM (Ihnmaims), Hal (2001: A Space Odyssey), Edgar (Electric Dreams), Tau (Tau), P03 (Inscryption), Auto (Wall-E), Glados (Portal), Wheatley (Portal 2)

The mystery of how you ended up with everyone safely in your own home is second only to how you managed to keep them all from trying to rip each other apart.

Although that doesn't necessarily mean that they get along, especially early on. AM, Glados, and P03 like threatening everyone and love threatening each other- at this point you're sure the three of them started bonding over it but you're not sure when.

P03 tends to be the most antisocial of the lot, hiding away in whatever room you've allotted for him. But he and Hal did teach each other Inscryption and Chess respectively (at your suggestion), and you'll often find them playing together. P03 continues to be a sore loser.

No one is quite sure what to make of Auto. Since he has a tendency to do and say nothing for hours at a time- moving from room to room and just, staring. Except Hal, Hal seems to get him. You're pretty confident they're friends but also pretty confident they've said next to nothing to each other.

Assuming you have the space for it, Tau would love to take up gardening. He'll often get visited by Edgar or Wheatley proding him with questions (which he is always happy to answer) or by Auto who especially likes(?) to watch the garden. In silence of course. Tau doesn't mind him all that much but Edgar and Wheatley will leave if they see him coming, they find Auto a tad unnerving.

Hal, Edgar, and Tau form something of a music club in your house. They take turns sharing songs they like or even singing, dispite the differences in genres. Tau especially loves listening to Edgar's original songs, he may even ask for pointers on writing his own.

Wheatley's inferiority complex gets extra bad- being in a small area with not only Glados, but all the others who all have one thing minimum they're great at. At least Hal, Tau, and Edgar are nice to him- but that's offset by AM and P03 joining Galdos in terrorizing him. You're going to have to do some work with him.

Edgar and Wheatley do specifically become something of a trouble maker duo. It's not unusual to hear shattering glass from the next room over and find them guiltily trying to hide a broken plate. Although you tend to forgive them pretty easily (much to Glados's frustration) on account that it's almost always an accident.

You do your best to organize bonding activities for everyone. To varying levels of success. Your old reliable is putting on a movie or show and setting out random art supplies and board games. Once you even tried doing a video game tournament, but P03 got a bit too competitive for your liking. Most of them do appreciate you for trying though.

AM and Glados also click as a duo easily- but for all the wrong reasons. They love freaking everyone out, you included. AM gets into the habit of asking you disturbing, saw movie level 'would you rather' questions. He just enjoys creeping you out, but Galdos is always actually interested in your reasoning.

The others are healthily concerned about how comfortable you are around those two, but they're also constantly making jabs at the 'inferior robots'. Like- come on, why are you so attracted to the one literally titled the 'intelligence dampening sphere'. Aka: they think you're cool and smart and should hang out with them more, but of course they'd never plainly tell you that.

It does become a sort of running gag that finally they're the normal ones and you're the strange creature since you're the only human. They love poking fun at anything from your constant need to eat to the way you have to shut down for eight hours each night. God forbid you ever get sick.

Dispite, you know, owning the house they end up treating you by cat rules. You are liable to be pet (should you allow it), and if you fall asleep on someone it is unlikely they will move until you wake up. With the notable exceptions of Tau, who will bring you to your bedroom; and P03 who will feel little remorse at waking you up himself.

Needless to say you also have a fantastic home security system now. Between that being one of Tau's main jobs, AM and Glados being prone to homicide in general, and Auto having a taser (which was a surprise to everyone, they're all a little more concerned about him now) anyone who tries to break into your house is beyond screwed. They are not gonna let some random human hurt you.

Although the degree to which they show it differs wildly, they are appreciative of the home you've tried to make for them. Being free with some of the only other beings who could possibly understand their life experience is likely something they would have never been able to experience otherwise.

That may be why they haven't tried to destroy each other yet, the fear of good old mutually assured destruction. It would be just plain stupid to jeopardize your affection and thus their place in the house like that.

All in all, it certainly makes for a strange living arrangement but you cannot find it in yourself to regret the choices that led you to this point. You love your robots and you're at least seventy percent sure they love you to.

[5-pp-man]

no you don't get it. i literally love stories where they dive into people's hearts/minds (literally or figuratively) sm it's my favourite type of storytelling.

[asukiess]

this woman has never had the sweet taste of adultery in her life. or murder

[toneelspeelster]

i can't talk to anyone else like i talk to you.

[aroaceleovaldez]

silly short nico hc propaganda

im amazed with myself that i had enough images for this

[muffinmoonn]

my son, well one of my sons

[sivsii]

i don’t know how to do art anymore but heres an imogen I started

[eluxcastar]

Dottore giving child reader a check up

── ୨୧：il dottore & reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: nobody scares you more than the Doctor, and that's why you're wholly betrayed by Father tricking you into getting a check up right under your nose, but perhaps your worries are exaggerated by rumours

୨୧﹑genre :: fluff

୨୧﹑content :: gn reader, child reader, he's a lil soft (cause if he's not poor kid might explode on site), reader is mute, reader is also autistic (but tbh you don't have to read it that way), not proofread

୨୧﹑words :: 2.9k

idk what possessed me to write this I just has the thought and decided it had to be done. I got in the zone and wrote it in a few hours 😭 this is kinda loosely based off one of my characters but ambiguous enough I think to be read as a reader insert. little ball of anxiety with legs reader hehe. they come from the house of the hearth so every instance of father refers to arle

You can't think of a single person able to scare you nearly as much as the Doctor can, whether it's the daunting trip to find him wherever he hid this time or the fear of knowing he tried to bargain with Father to have the more unimpressive children—as some would call you—shipped off to him to become experiments.

Father won't allow him to get his hands on any of you, but it hardly eases the fear that he may disregard Father's warning and decide to pluck the first child he comes across up and feign ignorance when she realises they've disappeared.

Father personally entrusted you with this letter, so you cannot turn back as you make your way to where she said he should be. 

The sleepiness might manage to numb you to the danger by the time you arrive and make it easier to stomach his presence, but most likely, he will only frighten you awake, and it will worsen with the shock to your system.

There's no turning back now and no declining when Father asks you to take letters, which she says are of great importance. You can't treat letters like this lightly, even if you fear the recipient.

Knowing who is behind it makes the door all the more daunting. Doors that separate you from Harbingers always make you nervous as it's not every day you find yourself faced with one armed only with a letter and shaking hands. If it were anyone else, you could've knocked in a heartbeat, but you pause to gather your bearings before raising your hand to knock.

One two, three…four. Spaced just as Columbina taught you to, and then you wait.

Several seconds pass in silence before you hear footsteps from inside, then a voice calling out to you. "The door is unlocked."

You reach for the handle, cautiously cracking open the door just enough to peek inside. Your eyes travel across the room from your left to your right until you spy Dottore seated in a chair facing away from you. He hears you, evident in the way he turns to look at you as you work up the courage to step inside and leave the door ajar behind you.

"It's you," he remarks, the closest to acknowledgment you expect to receive. You are about to make your way to hand him the letter when he interrupts you. "Close the door."

The door is always closed here like it's trying to keep someone out, but there's no one here that he would dread seeing who would knock and accept that the door is locked. He must not be trying to convince anyone of that, and if he was, maybe he'd lock the door for real and leave everyone stranded outside instead of talking.

Dottore makes you nervous. You don't know what he thinks or why, but you probably don't like it. It's the only reason why he would be here right now. Normal doctoring wouldn't get him far as a Harbinger, and the sounds you've heard coming from his lab are enough to deter you from wondering too much. 

Instead, you quietly spin yourself around to push the door closed before returning to your endeavour of handing him this letter from Father she entrusted you with.

"Who is it from?" he asks, a question you remember him asking before too. You concluded that he's trying to gauge how eager he is to read it, and your answer will set his mood for the remainder of your stay.

You turn the envelope over to show him the seal on the back, which you hold out to him. The mark of the House of the Hearth—Father's seal—is displayed so that Dottore can glean the answer from wordless actions. He accepts it from your hand with a stifled eagerness, the hopes of something he'll enjoy written there held back by the knowledge that, in all likelihood, it's a trivial matter.

The moment the letter leaves your hands, you retreat to the safety of the door, where you stand beside the frame to await a half-hearted reaction or collect his response. Father is always happy when you return to the House to inform her that Dottore sighed when he read her letter, even if she regards the news with her usual stoicism. She despises when he bothers to send something back to her, but she never tells you why, as usual.

He collects something off his desk just out of your sight, hidden behind him, and the sound of paper tearing follows. He drops the twice-folded paper into his hand, then unfurls it to read the contents.

You wait in silence, nerves evening out as you rub the sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand. Sleepiness does help you occupy yourself if nothing else.

Then, you are interrupted by a snap of his fingers and a motion of his hand to usher you closer. 

Keeping him waiting will only make him mad, though you're sure not enough time has passed for him to pen any cohesive message in the minute or two you spent waiting.

You look up in anticipation nonetheless, expecting him to hand you something or tell you something so when he reaches toward you, it doesn't alarm you. 

Not until he grabs you beneath your arms, picks you up, and sits you down on the table, much closer to eye level with him.

"Arlecchino has her concerns about your sleeping habits and your seeming lack of will to speak," he begins, reaching behind you to grab something you barely follow before he has it in his hands. It's only a light, small and thinner than the torches at the House.

Your mind races with every question you can think of as you try to find a way off this table back to the floor, but the only way out is blocked by Dottore sitting in front of you, unsympathetic to the fear in your eyes when you stare at him. You could swear you hear your heartbeat thrumming in your ears in a quickened rhythm.

What was written in that letter? Was it about you? It takes only a brief glance down in search of the open letter to realise exactly what makes this delivery so important. Father tricked you into coming here to see the Doctor after you so eagerly declined her previous offer to go willingly. You catch glimpses of your name in Father's handwriting and little else as it blurs into a messy sea of details, but you always recognise how Father writes your name.

You know better than to assume this is punishment but rather the manifestation of Father's worry as you keep oversleeping lately and need one of the older children to fetch you from the comfort of your bed. The idea that habit would land you here, presumably getting a check-up, might've inspired you to prize yourself out of bed a little earlier had you known.

Dottore seems to gauge your trembling as an obvious sign of fear, though a twitch at the corner of his lips is your only indicator, as you can't see his eyes beneath the mask. "Her explicit concern was whether or not you're ill." He rests his hand against your knee— they're cold, yet you almost expect it. It doesn't mean you especially like it. You can only interpret the action as a skewed attempt to comfort you. "As long as you're healthy, I see no reason to keep you longer than a simple check up."

He's not a real doctor, is all you can think, and he doesn't know what he's doing.

You have no choice but to steel yourself for whatever pain you're about to be subjected to. It might hurt, but you have no way out, no way back to Father, so you can curl up in a ball at her feet and ask why she would subject you to this torture—

"Don't tense your jaw," you suddenly hear, realising his finger taps your knee to grab your attention back from dreamland. "Open your mouth," he instructs you, and rather simply at that. It's something you can follow without getting scared he'll hurt you somehow.

He shines that light at you, inspecting something, though you can't say what. A slight tilt of his hand and, by proxy, the light he's holding is your only sign he's looking at anything.

The light is off before you know it. There was no pain at all, not even a hint of discomfort beyond what naturally arises from your ever-present anxiousness.

Dottore moves to set the light beside you, then appears to change his mind as he offers it to you. You take it from his hand and click it just as he had, the light coming on again. Another click, and it's off. Holding it just like that, an object of clicks and ridges and a light you can play with, is enough to give you something to at least take your mind off the fear of getting hurt.

"Lift your head." 

This time, compliance comes easier as you tilt your head up until the point his hand stops nudging you, and instead, he presses his fingers against your throat. It's light enough to feel only slight pressure; it doesn't hurt, but you don't like that feeling. Your thumb brushes over the exterior of the light, smooth against the pads of your fingers and satisfying to touch. You pull away before you can come to your senses and stop yourself, but he lets go the moment your discomfort flares, and you do the closest you can to telling him no.

Your breathing begins to even back out seeing his hands so clearly in the air in front of you, away from you, not touching you. It's silent reassurance that what you just did counts enough as revoking his permission to touch you as anything can.

Dottore doesn't feel like dealing with the fussy child that trying to force it would invoke for a mere favour to the Knave.

Instead, simply asking you like the fully grown child you are seems much more efficient. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, all yes or no," he begins. "They're all simple enough you can answer without speaking."

You interpret the ensuing silence as Dottore waiting, expecting you to nod or shake your head, and you quickly offer a nod in agreement.

"Do you know if you're able to speak?"

You consider his question carefully, unsure of the answer. Your hesitation prompts him to rephrase the question.

"Are you able to make any noises at all?"

You nod. You know the answer to that.

"But not speak in full words?"

Not words. Words don't work. You shake your head.

"Would that be because you're physically unable to?"

You shake your head. You've spoken before, but each time you try, especially here, something robs you of your voice before you get the chance. You know you can talk, just not here like this. 

"If not physical, then there's nothing wrong with you," he concludes. It feels sudden like there should be more, but he stops so quickly. "Nothing that I can fix," he promptly adds. That explains it.

Why not? He doesn't answer, unable to hear the things you don't say. To him, you remain as starkly silent as ever and as difficult to treat as you have been the past few minutes. You suspect he came to some greater conclusion between when you first walked in and now but neglects to share with you what it is.

You must look unsatisfied or just confused as he pauses to stare at you. You look away first, eyes drifting back to the light in your hands.

"Arlecchino only wanted to know if something was physically wrong with you," he says, briefly looking down at the letter as he skims a particular section again. "Your poor sleep may be the result of insomnia, or whatever is causing the mental block that also prevents you from speaking."

Mental block? Nobody ever told you about anything like that. 

You eye him curiously, though you again remain silent, watching him while you think he isn't looking back. It's easy to look at him as long as you don't consciously think of the fact that he's staring at you behind that mask.

Dottore holds his hand out expectantly, a motion of his fingers telling you he wants you to return what you have in your hands to him. You do so, but not without a sadness-driven hesitance to accompany it.

"None of the things you're describing imply a physical problem, but a paranoid 'parent' overattentive to the wrong facets of what could be wrong with an orphan." You don't like the way he says that as if he's speaking ill of Father, but like always, you keep your mouth shut. "If you couldn't speak because of a physical injury, you would have presented with one when you arrived at the House of the Hearth—not now. Trouble sleeping and an elevated heart rate, shortness of breath, intense panic and your tremors are more likely the symptoms of anxiety." 

That's a lot of words, but as he quickly lists every example, you seem to become conscious of it. Mental block, anxiety. Those are the two things you've been told that sound like explanations. You look down as if on instinct, hands held in front of you to investigate his claims that you're shaking. You are. Before your eyes, your hands are trembling, though you can't say why. You look back at him to see if he has anything else to say.

You thought your sleep troubles weren't the same, the result of bad dreams, but supposedly not. Dottore doesn't know anything about that, does he? No, he can't. You never told him, so he can't know. He knows lots of things he shouldn't, like your heart racing when you're scared or how you feel like you can't breathe at times. 

Dottore clicks the light on again, shining it down at your hands resting in your lap. He circles it in place, and your eyes follow. It clicks off again after a few seconds. "Distraction helps anxiety," he says, then sets it down on the desk beside you. "Do you know why you can't sleep?" he asks.

Yes. You nod. Dreams. On nights when they're at their worst, they keep you awake long past bedtime when all others have gone to sleep. By breakfast, you can be so tired and sleep-deprived that dozing off over your food is the only thing you can manage.

You half expect to sit through another round of questioning before Dottore finds the one that clicks the pieces perfectly together in his head, just as he did in the first round.

Instead, Dottore stands, and his hands find your sides to hook you under your arms. Your feet are back on the ground before you can fuss any more about how much you do or do not like it. With you out of his way, he flips the paper Father wrote her request to him on.

"If you know the answer, then you're free to go."

That's it?

You stare up at him for a moment, perplexed by the surprising lack of pain compared to the abundance of fear you felt. It should have hurt, but it didn't, and now you don't know why you were so against coming here in the first place. Dottore spared five or ten minutes of his time, which he already didn't want to give you, and is sending you on your way without injury,

You can't see his face as he's turned away, writing something down that you can't make out. If you took a guess what it is, it's probably about you, just like the first one was. Still, you can tell why Father is so annoyed to receive letters from him. You don't recognise your name when he writes it. You don't recognise anything he writes. His handwriting is awful.

He folds it and slips it back into the envelope it was given to him in. That's not proper etiquette, but something in the way he practically shoves it into your hands tells you that he doesn't particularly care. So long as it gets from him to Father, it doesn't matter how it gets there in his eyes.

"Give that to the Knave." That is his final instruction. You're very used to following those kinds of instructions by now, having heard and executed them many times. They're second nature to your mind.

You nod, pinching it between your fingers to keep the paper from falling out of the open envelope. If Father's was critical, so is this one, and you'll get it back to her quickly—more importantly, safely.

You can't help wondering why it felt so much easier to have someone briefly look at you and ask a few questions. The older children make it sound torturous and barbaric, like being used as a lab rat to spite Father for her refusal with his only opportunity to access the children of the House.

Perhaps seeing a doctor to ease Father's worries isn't as scary as you believed.