#look I can draw something else than skeletons

[grunckle]

I think something that gets misinterpreted a lot in the Rain World community is what purposed organisms actually are. Theres a common interpretation that they were like “beasts of burden” and looked like or were the creatures we still see today. But this isn’t what Moon tells us, here’s what she says.

“Most purposed organisms were considerably smaller than me, and most barely looked like organisms at all. More like tubes in metal boxes, where something went in one end and something else came out the other…When I came into this world there was very little primal fauna left. So it's highly likely that you are the descendant of a purposed organism yourself!”

This dialogue paints the picture that most purposed organisms were closer to machines, or machine cogs, with biological parts than actual animals.

Of course most people are aware that creatures like leviathans and miros birds have mechanical aspects, but I think that most if not all creatures have some sort of blending of the biological and mechanical; it’s more of a spectrum than a dichotomy with cyborgs in between.

This idea is also based on some of the old Rain World concept art by Joar.

Here, it looks like melting globs of flesh, (or fleshy rubber and plastic) mutate over a metal “skeleton”. I think this can show the possible intention for purposed organisms and evolution in this world. Organic and mechanical transition seamlessly, and organic parts grow rapidly. I believe most purposed organisms started off on the more mechanical side of things, but evolved their organic “cover” in this way. Maybe everything we see, including us, have some mechanical components that are hidden by the flesh exterior.

This sort of, life overabundance and rapid growth is shown through Five Pebbles’s rot in game. His rot globs are able to grow legs and become mobile in an incredibly short amount of time, and even proto rot grows from innocuous metal walls.

My friend over at Darthzz-Ploo-World really coined this interpretation (and many others) in my opinion and did a wonderful art piece showcasing it.

My friend Re also did some great art showcasing a theory on orange lizards evolving from those computer boxes in Sky Islands and the exterior.

I also did some doodles on my own theories in the same vein. This time on the origin or Shoreline leviathans from Moon’s collapsed iterator components.

But yeah, I think Downpour leaned more into the “beast of burden” interpretation, but I also don’t think the two are mutually exclusive. Not everything needs to be a tube-box descendant I suppose.

[felassan]

Dragon Age: "In #DragonAge: Vows and Vengeance, you'll get to meet all our companions before they joined the Veilguard - including a gentleman necromancer 💀 Subscribe and listen wherever you get your podcasts. Premieres August 29: [link]" [source]

This tweet mentions that the moments of the companions' lives depicted in the podcast are from times prior to them joining the Veilguard and therefore the events of the game.

Text in the notebook reads:

"Something's gone wrong. The dead stir more easily than they should."

Maybe we are looking at Emmrich's notebook here? ^^ it sounds like something isn't right in the Grand Necropolis and with the Veil/the dead in general. (I wonder if this is part of the reason why in the release date reveal trailer, there are giant undead skeletons causing a stir). In Nevarra/the Mortalitasi, they believe that when someone dies a spirit is pushed out of the Fade into the mortal world. In exchange, they invite those spirits to inhabit the empty bodies left behind. This is common orthodoxy for the Nevarran populace. when a spirit leaves the Fade, it crosses the Veil. when the Veil is thin (or weak or damaged..), demons and spirits can escape more easily into the waking world. once they do, they sometimes possess corpses. since we need to guard the Veil in this game and there's a Veil-tearing Lyrium dagger around (plus who knows what else Ghil and Elgar'nan and whatever else are doing to it..), it makes sense that if the Veil is damaged/at risk, more dead would stir and more easily than they should do. (in TN, Lord Penrick Karn's funeral procession was interrupted by his corpse's premature possession). you can see why a Mourn Watcher like Emmrich would be motivated to join a group dedicated to guarding the Veil.

The anatomical drawings here track, Nevarra has unrivalled knowledge of anatomy. <- DA:TV spoilers at link.

The notebook also reminds me of Grim Anatomy.

These numbers look to appear twice on the pages:

"7197 | 3.85715 7198 | 3.85721 7199 | 3.85727 | 6 7200 | 3.85733 | 6"

What do they mean? could it be a calculation, or a code?

And can anyone make out what the flowing script on the left hand page says? ^^ I wonder what language it's in? Whether it corresponds to a spell? it also reminds me of this exchange from the 'Meet The Companions' panel at SDCC, as it relates to Emmrich:

"Lucy: And I hear as well that Emmrich gets, I mean, you’re all gonna get some fantastic lines, but I hear that Emmrich has some quite spectacular ones. You, Nick, you and Ashley, I would love to hear about the process of, was it difficult to get like some of those tongue-twisters, and? Ashley: Yeah, Sylvia the lead writer basically was like, ‘Ash, you’re gonna need a dictionary for all of the sessions with Emmrich’, it’s like, 'Okay!’. And we get there, you just nailed them all, like 'shduhfejdkjjdhdjdhfjehfjkhehe into the Fade’. Nick: Well, I don’t know if I nailed them all, that’s very kind of you. But, there was some serious tongue-twisters there, and, but it’s great, it’s great to be in the booth, and to be given a challenge like that, and. Yeah, it’s fantastic, I mean that’s what I love to do, so it was great to be just gifted that."

[source]

[pleasestayawayidonotlikeyou]

Could you do underswap bros (seperate) x vampire reader please!

❤❤

Featuring: Sky and Honey.

Masterlist

Sky

If I were you I'd be careful with him in the bedroom-

Now seriously, he finds it cool that you're a vampire, can you turn into a bat like people say??

His jaw is dropped if you wear vampire goth clothes, shit you look hot.

If you feed off blood, he'll try to influence you to have a better diet, it's not the most normal thing to just suck others shoulders just to eat you know? And it's inappropriate too!

He's a streamer, and knowing his fans, you can expect to receive some fan mail with drawings of you as vampire characters from them mere days after Sky showed you in his stream.

When he's editing a video or looking for games before recording and you're on his lap, he won't really mind if you start biting him.. just can't promise it won't turn into anything else.

Will proudly expose the bite marks on his neck, especially after a long long night... If you get what I'm saying.

"Bro why the hell do you have bite marks all over your neck?"

"WELL BECAUSE (_____) IS A VAMPIRE OF COURSE! I CAN'T LET MY PARTNER GET HUNGRY CAN I?"

"...Sky we're skeletons we don't bleed-"

"I Know."

*Enter Sky with a smug ass face.

Honey

Ah yes, just like the comics he reads, or maybe not-

The truth is that Honey doesn't really care if you're a vampire or not, as long as you don't go out there biting people because you're hungry..

He's not the best at drawing, yet it's something he enjoys and definitely draws you to practice.

Please watch vampire diaries with him, he's trying new types of series, + Cash's Undyne recommended it to him so... Why not watch one that contains vampires with a vampire?

He's the type to make jokes here and there, some that may not be to your liking "Why does the vampire hate going to the supermarket? Because they hate garlic! Hehe... Not good?"

Calls you his little blood sucker and then laughs when your eyes light up at the nickname.

Lets you bite his shoulder sometimes, yet no more than 3 bites and he's already asking for you to stop, it's just not his thing you know?

[flamebringer0]

[Image ID: Sketches of an original character, numbered from one to ten. He is a Nightwing, a kind of dragon from the Wings of Fire series. Each sketch depicts him posed differently. In the first sketch, he is using his forelegs to hold a spear while using his back legs and wings to walk. In the second, he is looking at his tail through his forelegs. In the third, he is sitting on a deck chair. In the fourth, he is standing normally and displaying the undersides of his wings. In the fifth, he is flying. In the sixth, he is standing on his back legs and looks uncomfortable, like he's about to fall over. In the seventh, he is standing on his forelegs and looks even more uncomfortable. In the eighth, he is laying on his stomach, looking away from the camera. In the ninth, he is standing with his forelegs braced against some kind of barrier, looking over the top of it. In the tenth, he is sitting on his haunches looking away from the camera. /.End ID]

Sketching random poses for practice.

Part [1] [2]

Some commentary:

1. Dragons in WOF are often described as moving around while holding objects like spears and scrolls. This usually looks weird to me in the graphic novels, where they mostly end up doing a strange three-legged walk that I imagine would get tiring after a while. There's also a part in The Lost Heir where Anemone apparently walks around with a lance jammed in her armpit... foreleg-pit... whatever. My headcanon is that this three-legged walk doesn't really happen, and instead the way to walk while holding something is to either hold it with your wing, or (as shown here) walk with your wings and hold it with your forefeet. I think this idea might sound weird and therefore not occur to people because they think that the wing is so thin that it must be too flimsy to walk on, but I feel that if it's strong enough to carry a dragon in flight it must be strong enough for this. Maybe. It makes sense to me anyway.

2. Originally this was sort of inspired by the pose at 0:34 in this video (cw for violence). I wasn't really satisfied with how my attempt looked so I changed the head to be doing something else. I still like that pose though and I might try it again.

3. This was inspired by Spyro sleeping on the deck chair in the remake of Spyro 2. I don't know if they have deck chairs in Pyrrhia. My friend told me the chair is about to get impaled and i guess he's correct. Maybe it's made of a very thick fabric.

4. This is how dragons T-pose.

5. What do dragons do with their legs in flight? This question bedevils me. When I was creating my Minecraft skin (this) I changed how the legs are posed during the flight animation several times, and I'm still not sure it really looks right.

6. Before I got into WOF I mostly only drew anthro characters, so something I want to understand better is how to draw a character standing on two legs without making it look like they have a human skeleton. My headcanon is that dragons can learn to stand and even walk like this, but most don't. You can tell an expert from an amateur because an expert will stand all the way up onto their toes, whereas an amateur will keep their heels on the ground. I think the main students of this technique are circus performers. If you do this in public you will be stared at. The only tribe where a lot of dragons can do it is Rainwings, because they think it's funny. The only major non-Rainwing character who can do it is Qibli.

7. Standing on your forelegs isn't really considered harder than standing on your hind legs, but it is considered a more advanced technique because you're much more likely to snap your neck if you fall over.

8. It's really hard for me to draw a tail curling away from the camera like this. I don't exactly understand what I'm doing wrong. The scales look weirdly skewed to me, like a Playstation game where the polygons are touching the edge of the screen. This happens regularly but I haven't figured out what to do about it.

9. Standing on two legs is a lot easier if you brace the other two up against the wall.

10. Wings look silly here. Wings are the hardest part of these sketches to make look naturalistic I think, probably because I conceptualise dragon bodies as like ... a dog with wings, as opposed to a bat with forelegs. Hopefully if I keep doing this I will be able to develop a holistic understanding of the anatomy of a body plan that does not exist. That's my ambition, anyway.

[toxicbrothel]

POV

Joel has to drive somewhere, and Carter is busy. It’s just you and Joel, and you’re taking the smaller van. As Joel gets in the driver’s seat, for the first time he tells you to buckle up. It feels silly, given everything that’s happened in this van while it was moving, but you do it anyway. The road is mostly quiet, and you never see another car. It feels weird having a seat all to yourself, but seeing Joel drive really turns you on. His massive triceps casually flex with every turn. His thick thighs shake a little on the bumpy road. Joel looks over at you and does a double take, allowing himself the hint of a smile. 

“What?” you ask. 

He shakes his head as though to brush it off, then says. “The way you were lookin’ at me.” His nose pulls downward and he bites his lip like he might actually laugh otherwise. It gives you such a burst of joy that you could cry if you dwelled on it too long. 

“How was I looking?” you smile. 

He shakes his head. His nose twitches again. 

“How?” you plead. 

“. . . Like,” he shrugs.  “Like you’re . . .watchin’ a movie, or somethin’.”

You shrink into your dress to hide your smile, embarrassed of how wide it is, and for something so simple to make you so happy. It’s wrong to feel happy when you’re driving by pits full of skeletons and rotted clothes, you think. Looking out the window, looking at anything but Joel, is a reality check, but you can’t keep your eyes away long. 

You bring your left knee up on the seat and turn toward him, resting the upper left side of your head on the headrest as you watch. “I never see you drive, you know.” 

“Guess not,” he agrees. 

“I like how you do it.”

He reaches over and pets the crown of your head, and his eyes travel down your body before he returns his hand to the wheel. “Dress looks good on ya."

“I love it,” you gush. You fiddle with the hem and look down. There's that sting and pressure behind your eyes again. It’s the fact that he picked it up for you, back when he used to leave you at the trailer. And he didn’t give it to you until now. He wasn’t sure you’d like it, he said. Then, on this unseasonably warm day, he finally took it out of the bottom of one of his drawers. Like it was always in the back of his mind--you'd like to know what else is back there.

Unshed tears begin to blur your vision, and when you blink, the tears web your lashes. Joel notices. He watches you for a second and your lip quivers. He looks at the road again. You bring your knee down from the seat and look straight ahead, and when you blink again, one rolls down. Joel draws in a slow breath through his nose and looks at you as he exhales. You wipe your eyes with your fingers, then glance at him, brow furrowed, and quickly shake your head like you don’t wanna talk about it.

He nods in agreement and goes back to watching the road. A few seconds later, he looks at you again and puts his hand on your thigh. His voice takes on a soothing tone. “I know, sweet pea.” After a minute, he opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't. 

He rubs your thigh, then squeezes it. You nod and take a deep breath.

He adjusts his head on the headrest, looking pensively at the road. He's driving with one hand. He makes everything look so easy.

Sitting side by side, with what feels like a massive gap in between, even though he can reach you. . . It suddenly feels wronger than ever. You feel strange and exposed without your bodies together. 

“I feel weird in this seat,” you admit and wish it didn’t come out whiny. 

As soon as the sentence leaves your mouth, he takes his foot off the gas and the white noise of the gravel becomes slower, more soothing as he pulls off the road. He parks on the grass, surveys the area in silence for a few seconds, then turns off the engine. He gets out and gently closes the door. You take off your seatbelt while he’s coming around to your side.

You start to open the passenger door, and he opens it the rest of the way. You scoot to the edge of the seat and he leans into the van. You wrap your arms around his neck and his hands on your back pull you even more toward the edge. “It’s okay, I got ya,” he murmurs. You wrap your legs loosely around him, and he pulls you flush. A moan slips out when you feel him against you. You lift your chin, and when your lips brush his beard, he tilts his head down. His lips quickly find yours, and he moans quietly into your mouth as his embrace tightens.

------

------

Thank you so much for reading! And ty for the photo, Lum! 🌸🫛 💕

I imagine she picks the flower at some point on this trip as well.

[art-tnt]

It's may be an odd question but do you think you could maybe post a couple tips of anatomy and/or proportion that helped you sometime? I notice I have a hard time learning from videos or guides, but sometimes when I learn on my own or hear someone else's personal experience it just clicks and it's nice.

I know this may sound strange, but for me it was a class I took with Matt Faulkner, who had a very refreshing approach to mark making and drawing from life. We did have a live model, and drawing people from life teaches you two important things that books cannot: textbook anatomy is idealized, not everybody will look like that and foreshortening and perspective are things that are easier to see in person (at least, for me they were).

As you draw things like that over and over, you will build a mental library that will help you draw those tougher perspectives from imagination. I still use a reference, because the human body can bend and distort in a lot of ways and I am nowhere near having all of that memorized, and WE DON’T HAVE TO! If it gets committed to memory, great! But artists should never feel shame from using a reference because that is how we learn and that is how we improve. Even professionals use a reference.

The mark making that Matt taught us was a little different than some of the other classes I had been through in the past. I typically would draw a human with basic shapes and a “wire-frame” skeleton for my foundational rough sketch, but Matt would have us start drawing our figures with different lines. Contour lines, is just drawing the outside of what you’re observing, while periodically flashing your eyes at the paper. Blind contour would have us looking only at our subject and drawing what we were seeing without ever picking up the pencil (some of these actually turn out pretty cool).

Volumetric drawing was the one that I had never come across before. Matt uses a lot of crosshatching and volume lines in his work. See the below example:

The way this applies to anatomy is that his way of volumetric drawing is helpful in finding the space that your figure takes up. Sometimes Matt would have us draw our figure with ONLY volumetric lines. It would look like a tornado person, but this practice wasn’t to make something visually appealing, it was to help us train our brain and our eyes to see the volume. In that volumetric study we would be wrapping lines in a width and curvature that followed the subject. Here is a visual example of a volumetric drawing by Monika Zagrobelna that shows what I mean:

The volumetric drawing helps to grasp how much space something takes up, whereas the wire-frame doesn’t really convey that kind of information. A lot of people reference the Andrew Loomis books and Figure Drawing For All It’s Worth [ISBN: 978-0857680983] is a good resource to learn from. But Loomis does idealize the standard figures in his works and books. I am not saying don’t draw like him! There is nothing wrong with his style! Just don’t fall into the assumption that every body type will align exactly with the proportions and measurements that he covers. For example, he usually has a standard height that male and female figures are drawn at and certain points where knees are expected to reach and other body part milestones:

It is a guideline, and it is useful, but I found that the best exercise that you can do is to do a study on separate pages. No one taught me this, I just did it out of curiosity to see how it would go. Set one aside for male and one for female. First, draw your standard Loomis figure, then get five other male/female reference photos (or drawn from life if you can) of people with different body types. Try drawing them from observation and see how much of the Loomis concept applies to them. You’ll find that you can bend a lot of the Loomis ideas to fit, but you have to throw out some things entirely in order to accurately portray your subject (like the number of heads tall something has to be, or posture, for example).

Hopefully, despite that being a little long-winded of me, you found this experience helpful? Everyone learns differently, so I feel your struggle. I am a big visual learner and need to see what is happening with something to understand it. I also learn best by struggling. So what were the “aha” moments for me, may not necessarily work for another, but it is here if you can find any value or use in it.

[little-orange-bastard]

Chapter 4: One For The Road...

@pepperonyscience @authortobenamedlater @thefinaljediknight @p0tat0-g0ddess @ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask @helix-enterprises117 @purple-purple-pink-purple (Out of character, just real quick I appreciate everyone's patience with the delay to the campaign. The bug that blew through the ToBeNamedLater household had myself an ATBNL down pretty hard. We are doing much better, so back to it!) STORY CONTINUES BELOW: Picking up where our story left off, and advancing the story timeline slightly, all of you have evacuated your dead bunker and are on a dusty remain of a highway. Your group is a motley collection of fangirls @authortobenamedlater @thefinaljediknight @p0tat0-g0ddess. You also have one cattle wrangler @ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask, a pilot (latecomer @purple-purple-pink-purple who was sleeping in the back room of the bunker for the last six months because that's just how much naps moms need to catch up) and a human survivor @helix-enterprises117 with an overpowered cybernetic fist that makes him look a bit like a fiddler crab. Despite the time being high noon, the sky has an orange haze on account of the extra particulates in the atmosphere, the telltale signs that a nuclear winter could be coming. Off in the distance you can see the burnt out remains of a city with the barely legible roadsigns indicating it is the town of Pueblo, Colorado.

Very little seems to be moving on the surface. You've seen a few scavengers, mostly crows, vultures and carrion eaters but nothing else of significance. You have heard a few rustles of *something* that seems to be following you, but haven't been able to make it out. The roadway is littered with the remains of burned out cars, the bodies now just skeletons or ash. The air is cold and dry on account of the reduced solar gain, lack of precipitation, and shortened days for October. You are all wearing matching desert camouflage uniforms (DCU's) surplus from the Desert Storm era. They blend in fairly well to the environment. For equipment you each have a matching pack in the same camouflage pattern. Inside each pack is the following: a bedroll, a poncho tarp for shelter, some waterproof matches, some water purification straws, a change of clothes and extra underwear/socks, a hand crank emergency AM/FM radio receiver and flashlight combo, a first aid kit, compass, map, spare boot laces, some fishing equipment and some paracord. You each also have a few quarts of water apiece along with some survival lifeboat rations, enough to last a week or so with careful use. For weapons, you each at a minimum are equipped with a survival knife and sheath. You all managed to scavenge a few other weapons in the bunker. For firearms there are two Glock handguns of mismatched calibers (9mm and .45 automatic respectively) and limited ammunition for each of just three preloaded magazines apiece due to weight and size limits. There is a singular AR-pattern rifle with iron sights and two magazines. The rest are carrying either a baseball bat, crowbar or tire iron as they choose to do so. These arms are distributed among the group to those that are best trained in their use. Overall, you aren't in the worst condition weapon-wise, but it's clear that scavenging ammunition and being selective with your engagements is going to be critical for now. An extended firefight could draw a lot of attention and burn through your at-present limited ammunition needlessly. Your orange avatar is riding in @authortobenamedlater's pocket. He hasn't said much lately other than the direction to go is northwest. The town of Pueblo is presently to your due north and you are just on the outskirts around the dried remains of Lake Minnequa. Your little group also has a fold-up DeLorme topographical map with the words "Candy Mountain" written in purple crayon and an X crudely drawn over the Almagre Mountain range approximately 50 miles to your north. This would seem to be your destination. The question is, how are you going to get there? It's 50 miles of mostly desert with not much there between Pueblo and the base of the mountain. That's a long way on foot with limited supplies. There appear to be three obvious possible avenues. One is the BNSF railyard in the middle of the bombed out remains of Pueblo which is filled with who knows what. Maybe transportation. Maybe looters. Maybe monsters. There's also the Pueblo airport out east which may offer some options but is in the opposite direction for travel to your destination. You might find something there, or then again it could be a red herring. Circling around Pueblo to the rest there's the aptly named suburb of Pueblo West. Doesn't seem like there's much in the way of transportation choice there, but they do have a number of shops that may yield important supplies. You're sure that you wouldn't be the only survivors thinking the same thing.

There may be other options yet open to you but there’s a problem. Your group is split on which direction to go. The limited weapons and deciding who got what proved to be incredibly unpopular and onerous in the extreme. It's clear that leadership is going to have to be decided on before following whichever path.

[nomoreusername]

In My Heart

Pairing:Newt x gender neutral reader

Summary:When survivors guilt hits you extra hard one night Newt comforts you.

By the time I realized it was happening I couldn't do anything to stop it. What seemed to be a million tears poured from my eyes.

Even though it was late I didn't want to be here. I don't cry so doing it near people feels wrong. I'm the optimist.

How can I be optimistic now though? Every time I close my eyes I remember those I've lost, and it takes everything inside me not to scream. Sometimes I am filled with nothing but guilt that I get to live, and my friends are dead. It's nothing more than the luck of the draw. If Gally hadn't gotten stung Chuck would have lived, and he might have. If Winston was immune he could be able to wake up tomorrow. If Minho wasn't in danger Jeff wouldn't have saved him, and so on.

So what did I do differently to deserve to live?

As these dark thoughts overwhelmed my head I started pacing. Despite it being dangerous I needed to be alone. I was just sick of being around everyone breathing right now.

Because I am one of those people. I am alive, and almost everyone else I knew is dead.

I found a small rock and leaned against it. As I did I let it all out. Every single emotion I hid was finally here, and there was no stopping it.

My heart felt heavy as I sat there below the stars. Were my friends stars now? Were they in the sky watching me? Did they hate me for living or were they looking after me?

"Hey,"Someone whispered, tapping my shoulder. I wiped my eyes and turned around to see Newt with a solum look on his face.

"Hi,"I managed to say.

"Can I sit?"He asked quietly. I just nodded before staring at the ground. My friends could be in the ground right now, rotting and on their way to becoming skeletons.

"Survivors guilt,"He whispered. I hesitantly nodded.

"How did you know?"I mumbled.

"It comes to everyone sooner or later,"He whispered, closing his eyes.

"I just-don't know what I did to deserve to live. They fought just as hard to live. What sets us apart?"I mumbled, pulling my knees to my chest and wiping my eyes.

"Do you really want to know what makes us different than them?"He asked slowly, sitting beside me.

"If you have an answer then please,"I murmured, feeling more and more drained each second.

"Nothing,"He stated.

"What do you mean?"I whispered, glancing up at him and looking at him through my blurred tears.

"It was luck and circumstance. It's sort of a messed up circle. Gally getting stung killed Chuck which killed him. Minho being in danger killed Jeff. If Winston was immune he'd be here. The people who stayed v.s the people who ran, both options were unclear. It's dumb luck and the different reactions. Nothing more. Nothing less,"He answered, his voice gentle yet firm and sure of himself.

Hearing him say what I had always been thinking seemed to pull just an inch of pressure off of my chest. I had feared that there was something wrong with me. Still, there was another thing I needed and answer for.

"Do you think they hate us for it?"I asked.

He didn't say anything. Instead, he placed his arms around me and pulled me into his chest.

"I can't answer that, but I can tell you this. They're our friends. Some of them gave their lives for us. That's the way we want to remember them. Not their death but who they were. Strong, loving, and kind,"He whispered, rubbing my back. I couldn't help but tremble as I was unable to respond.

"They haven't left us, Y/N. They never will."

"How could you be sure of that?"I asked, not moving away from him.

"Because as long as we carry them in our hearts we carry them with us."

"I always will,"I swore, seeming to run out of tears.

"I know, love. I know,"He whispered, pressing a kiss to my forehead. I leaned against him and felt exhaustion start to overcome me.

"Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up,"He promised. I took his word for it and allowed my eyes to flutter shut.

Only months later I would have to keep his words with me more than ever. Because unfortunately the only way I ended up being able to hold him was in my heart.

[popatochisssp]

Would it be too much to ask what kind of jobs the new skeles might have since you already shared bram would be a groundskeeper at a cemetery?

Looks like I never officially did this one for Wave 2, just Wave 1 over here.

So, while we’re at it, let's do 2 and 3!

Ash (Undergloom Sans): He’s semi-unemployed, or self-employed depending on how you look at it. He busks, playing his trombone out on the street and accepting donations from anyone who feels so inclined. He likes playing music and the idea of brightening peoples’ days in the middle of their commute, so the money doesn’t really matter to him. Sometimes he picks up small gigs at local venues, mostly by word of mouth, and eventually he breaks into the tutoring scene—teaching his favorite instrument to young aspiring musicians who find the same joy in it that he does.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): He works as a professor at the local community college, teaching anthropology. He’s passionate about the subject and can’t think of anything he’d rather do than share it with a classroom of humans who probably have no idea how interesting they really are. If only one student walked away from his class with a new appreciation for what humanity’s all about then he’s fulfilled—but he tends to send a lot more away with that than just one, since he’s a very popular, friendly, and accessible teacher.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): He’s self-employed, knitting blankets at home and selling them online. He doesn’t need a job at all, between the Queen and his brother, money’s not an issue, but he’d go crazy if he didn’t have something to do all day, and nobody wants to see what he looks like when he goes crazy. He takes commissions often, but other times he just makes things according to whatever he’s feeling and what color yarn he has handy and sells to whoever feels like buying it.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): He works as a physical therapist. He more or less taught himself to walk again after losing his leg, and a second time after getting a replacement, so he very personally understands the need that exists for people who are injured and want to get back to their normal life—but maybe lack the discipline, the knowledge, or the tools to take that journey solo. He’s hard on his patients and sadistically merciless, but his success rate in terms of mobility recovered is very high and any complaints after the fact are begrudging at worst.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): He’s a home baker, making cakes and small pastries for a small but growing client base. He likes the freedom of getting to pursue his passions seriously and to be his own boss, set his own hours, screen his own clients, et cetera. He puts a lot of time and care into what he makes, both in terms of flavor and decoration, and finds nothing quite so satisfying as a repeat customer or a glowing review and recommendation to someone new.

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): Freelance programming is what he does for cash. It was something he could both learn how to do and actually do remotely, without the need for more than the bare minimum of in-person contact. He likes problem-solving, and complaining about the problem-solving, and the field is pretty much always in demand so if he’s bored of certain kinds of jobs, or sick of the person giving him the jobs, he can jump ship at any time and be a contractor someplace else.

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): He’s a boxer, more amateur than pro so he doesn’t make a ton doing it, at least not consistently, but he likes fighting and draws in a decent crowd by being a bit of a spectacle (a blind skeleton in the ring) so the entertainment value is worth something. Aside from that, eventually, he fills in for his brother as a combination business partner/agent/accountant, helping him get jobs and keep clients and manage the money he makes doing so.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): He’s unemployed for a long while, but ultimately breaks into professional photography, with a specialty in travel photographs. He likes taking pictures and getting to see the world in the process, and it helps that it’s a family business so he and his brother have pretty much full control over what jobs he takes and for how much. He doesn’t really concern himself with the money numbers, though, he just likes filling out his portfolio with gorgeous locales all around the world.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): He does a lot of odd jobs, all over the place, generally (things that are considered) unskilled labor—bussing tables, janitorial work, desk clerking, that kind of thing. He doesn’t like the thought of getting too stuck into any one thing and being unable to try something else out later if it doesn’t work out, and there’s something to be said for the satisfaction of being closely connected to the results of your labor. Sometime down the line he will end up sticking in one career, as a dealer for a casino, because it combines his social, charming nature with his sharp eye and quick hands, but until then he’s happy to bounce around.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): He’s a bookkeeper at a nondescript company. He’s organized and thorough with record-keeping and double-checking data, and he likes putting those skills to use to make sure his employer’s finances and transactions all balance out at the end of the day. Some might find it boring work and he could almost certainly qualify for a much more ‘prestigious’ job doing something else, but he’s satisfied having a job that doesn’t require all of his effort and brainpower, so he can save some of that for his personal life and private interests.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): He’s a nomad, a wanderer, he has no job. He’s a robot in the shape of a monster—ostensibly still a monster, even so—in a world full of humans that as yet believe monsters don’t exist, so even if he wanted a job, getting one would be logistically difficult. Luckily, he feels no special need to be gainfully employed and just spends his time wandering around and taking in the world. If he needs something, he’ll either just take it or use one of his brother’s accounts to pay for it.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): He’s a performer, a disc jockey who mixes, makes, and plays music to crowds at clubs, raves, and discos, anywhere he’s welcome. He takes advantage of the perception of his holographic form as an artist’s gimmick, like Daft Punk, Hatsune Miku, dead musicians projected onto stages to play posthumously… In his defense, that last one is sort of exactly what he is, except he didn’t really start making music until after he died. Still, he has fun doing it and adores the fame he’s steadily gaining as a popular, cutting-edge technology music act.

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): He does aura readings for people. For those interested to know, he shares his perception of their colors and the flow of energy in and around them, and just generally describes the sense he gets about a person. What he does is really more of a soul read than an aura read, so a lot of the color meanings and terminology he uses contrast with the kind of readings his clients may get from humans who practice something a little bit different. Still, he’s earnest in his desire to help people understand themselves and their energies and emotions, so he gets a lot of recommendations and repeat clientele who trust he’s the real deal.

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): He works as an event planner, organizing gatherings, arranging vendors, booking venues, the whole nine. He has a great reputation for making things go smoothly and always seems to be able to talk out bumps and snags before they ever become a major problem. He also maintains great relationships with people in the industry and delights in having connections just about everywhere in case he needs to call on a favor to make something happen for a client. He's got the magic touch and the silver (gold) tongue that makes everything fall into place just so.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): He works as a clerk at a pawn shop. He gets to handle a lot of interesting items and assess roughly how much they’d be worth, and he’s pretty good at haggling and negotiating with people who might not agree with said assessments. Sometimes people will come in with broken stuff they wouldn’t be able to get too much for, but maybe he can cut ‘em a deal, fix it up on his own dime and if they come back for it, great—and if they don’t, his boss’ll be happy to have something that works to sell to somebody else at a markup, how ‘bout it? He does a brisk business and both sides of the counter love him.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): He’s in construction. He’s huge, strong, takes direction well, and diligently follows rules and protocols—he’s an ideal fit for it. He likes to work hard and be able to see a job come together, knowing he had a part in it and being satisfied with the quality of his contribution. He especially likes to take every safety training and equipment certification course he can attend because he likes knowing what the rules are and being specifically told how certain procedures are run, machines operated, et cetera. He’s very likely to be apprenticed in as a foreman if not the inheritor someday of the construction business by its current owner for his work ethic and dedication, but that’ll be a long ways from now.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): He works as an independent auditor and combs through companies’ records, internal and external documentation, processes, and accounting and ensures everything is being done in accordance with industry standards. In short, he shows up, demands to see everything they have, and looks through it to see if they’ve lied, did something wrong, or lost information they weren’t supposed to. Sometimes he can do this remotely but other times he has to travel out to a physical office somewhere and sit down with a bunch of stuffed file cabinets, and he really doesn’t mind either way. He likes the work and he’s good at it—maybe because he’s good at it—and he finds it satisfying to catch the tiniest little misses and errors to demand an accounting of them.

Hunter (Swapfell Fruition Papyrus): He’s a trail maintenance worker for Ebott National Park. He walks the paths and hiking trails and makes sure they’re safe and unobstructed for visitors, as well as whatever odd jobs in the area that happen to come up—looking out for invasive species, helping with a bench install, directing lost tourists, that kinda thing. It’s not especially glamorous work but it’s pretty much exactly where he wants to be and he’s happy to do it, probably wouldn’t pick any other job in the world…except maybe to volunteer for a seasonal fire-watch position and do pretty much the exact same thing, but more isolated and with a big cool tower to sit in.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): He works as a mortician at a local funeral home. He generally isn’t expected (read: allowed) to deal with grieving families, that’s more the funeral director’s purview, but he works behind the scenes embalming, processing, and otherwise preparing the dead for their final party and last ride home. He has a strong stomach—or rather, no stomach at all—and doesn’t get squeamish or emotional about the dead, so that works out. They also let him work nights so he has several long, quiet hours of methodically going through the routine with no (living) humans around to irritate him or vice-versa. Sounds like a good gig to him.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): Yes, still a groundskeeper for the cemetery and loving it. It was something he kind of fell into through his brother, when he didn’t really know what he wanted to do on the Surface, but his brother sends dead humans off to their final resting place and said final resting place was looking for someone to dig holes, mind the grass, keep everything looking neat and nice—and that’s certainly something he can do! He also works nights, being that monsters are almost entirely nocturnal these days, so he’s also an unintentional scarecrow deterrent to teenagers sneaking in late for partying or spooky dares when they see a slim, bony silhouette materialize out of the shadows with a shovel in hand, asking if they’re just visiting or thinking about moving in.…

[lightan117]

Come back to me

**I needed my angst fic. Yeah, once again, I have no idea what is going to happen, and this is just what has been replying in my brain before I go to sleep, as I lie in bed. Angry and worried Lucanis over my Rooks well-being**

***Anyone else questions what happens when the healer is down in your party? Do you scream oh fuck or just chug a shit ton of potions until you notice there isn't any?**

**Btw, italics is Spite talking**

Warnings: Blood/Injury/Getting impaled/Angst/Near-death experience/violence/Necromancy coming in handy

Pairing: Lucanis x (F)Rook Mourn Watcher

~oOo~

Everything happened too quickly.

Hardly any time to react at all.

If anyone questioned Daisy after all was said and done, if she did it again, she would answer with a smile and a yes. There would be no guilt in her answer, as she wholeheartedly believed that the life of someone she cared about was worth ten times more than her own life. During times of war, there are always casualties. You never know when you will have a final breath or moment. Daisy promised everyone she cared about that she would do her utmost to keep as safe as possible to ensure everyone could still smile at the end of the day. There was enough sadness in the world. At the time, she didn't understand why fear had crippled her for just a moment. Lucanis can take care of himself along with Davrin, but she worries when her eyes notice the hidden mage. A feeling tickled the back of her neck, her hair stood on edge, and this wave of uneasiness washed over her like a cold bucket of water her bullies used to pour on her. What followed was a faint whispering she heard as a child while learning how to commune with spirits. Like an itch at the base of her skull, the words she couldn't make out, but it was a warning.

A warning that something was going to happen.

Two of her skeletons were already engaged, so she was the only backup for her team. With a wave of her hand, she sent a barrier over her comrades before sending a shockwave toward the hidden mage. He was flown back a few feet before suddenly he was pouched on by one of her skeletons. When she heard a shout, she turned to see that Lucanis was having a little trouble. Daisy moved in closer when suddenly a shadowy figure appeared a few feet behind Lucanis. The whispers she had heard were not about the mage—she wasn't listening—they were about the rogue. Now, they were yelling at her to move. Emmrich would scold her for not listening to the spirits, telling her how important it was to pay attention; such an apprentice move on her part.

Without thinking, she ran forward.

There was a sharp pain in her stomach. Daisy could make out a wicked grin that was moving, but the world went quiet. This loud hush deafened the world around her as this blooming pain continued to grow. She slowly looked down to see a dagger impaled through her.

Realization kicked in that she had taken the stab for Lucanis, the rogue standing in front of her with his other armed hand coming closer to her. When the second white hot, searing pain came, she quickly took hold of the rogue's arms, eyes locked with anger. The venatori, at first, was gloating about driving his daggers deep into her, but that gloating quickly wore off once he could start to feel the prickling of the air around him. "Despair." Purple, ghostly hands floated from around Daisy; fingers outstretched toward the man as waves of decaying stench flooded his senses. Fear gripped the man's chest as he released his hold on his weapons, cowering back at the sight. Strange laughing could be heard inside his head, causing him to scream, drawing the attention of Lucanis, who took the chance to throw one of his daggers into the man's eye socket.

Daisy fell to her knees as her breath came out in short huffs. There was a scream, and maybe someone shouted her name before Daisy felt her body suddenly go cold momentarily. The daggers stuck out of her as she continued falling to the floor. Her cheek met the ground, and the taste of iron flooded her mouth.

Sounds came and went as she continued to lie there for what felt like forever. Her thoughts drifted back to her life, her mothers, her friends, the spirits she's helped, to him...oh...why was she thinking of him like that now? Why could she see his face so clearly in her mind, this frown on his face for being so careless? He'd warned her countless times before to be careful, but why did it hurt so much now? He always said she should wear more armor under her robes or at least carry a dagger, but Daisy always said she didn't have to worry if he was around. Daisy's following thoughts were of her mothers with the same frown; they had told her to watch after herself and to contact them should she need anything. They would be so upset to learn how she died. She was dying, right? This is how someone dies?

"Daisy!" The voice was clear and harsh as she was brought into someone's arms. Above her was Lucanis, cradling her closely to him while being mindful of the blades sticking out of her. "Mierda...why did you do that?! You shouldn't have done that; I could have taken the blow." He hissed and tried to decide on the best course of action, but deep down, he was panicking. Lucanis Dellamorte doesn't panic. At this moment, he was. Oh, now you're worried about her? You keep denying that you don't have feelings, but here you are, losing your head. She's going to lose her head, too. She's dying. She's losing too much blood. Lucanis growled at the demon, its thoughts weaving around in his mind.

"I didn't want you to get hurt...just..moved when I saw the rogue appeared behind you." Daisy huffed out as she tried to calm her breathing as much as possible, but panic started to set in. "I've been impaled...spirits, it hurts."

"Lucanis!" Davrin had just finished the last vint when he made his way over to the pair. "Shit. Maker, that's not good."

"You think?! Give me a potion and some bandages." Davrin knelt and retrieved a health potion and bandages from his pack. "Drink this; it will slow the bleeding." Lucanis directed Daisy, practically forcing the liquid into her mouth. She struggled and fought him for a few moments before her brain caught up to what was happening before choaking what she could down. "We must get her to a healer or back to the Lighthouse. I cannot help her here." The blood from her wound was starting to seep between his gloved fingers as he did his best to stem the bleeding. Maker, it was everywhere. Lucanis worked desperately with the bandages around the daggers until Daisy found the sudden surge of energy to move her arms.

"Just pull them out; I can heal myself," Daisy said, but at a sudden movement, she cried out. Tears blurred her vision as she could feel the steal shift inside her. "Pull them out! Please!"

"We pull them out, and you will bleed faster." Lucanis cradled her jaw in his hands so that she would look at him. "Focus on me; you will be fine, yes?" Daisy nodded her head. Spite appeared on the other side of her, the demon glaring at Lucanis, his hands clenching and unclenching. Help her! YOU should have been watching her! Why weren't you paying attention, this is all your fault! "Quiet you!"

"There is a healing house not that far away. Do you think she'll make it?" Davrin asked as Lucanis got to his feet, jostling Daisy in his arms until he had a better grip on her. He winced at every cry that came from her mouth as he moved her but continued to push on. Spite was beside him, yelling at him to move faster.

"She must. I'll follow you." Lucanis nodded at Davrin to lead on; the pair took off. "Keep your eyes on me, Daisy."

"Not like there is anything better to look at. You're at least pretty to look at." Daisy joked with a huff that turned into a cough. Blood slid down her chin, her one free hand confirming it when she wiped what she thought was spit away. "That's not good, is it?" Lucanis said nothing but tried to pick up the pace behind Davrin, who was shouting at people to make way. "My head feels heavy, Lucan..."

Lucanis looked down to see Daisy's eyes start to close, so he gave her a good shake, even if it made her cry out in pain. "I'm sorry, Tesoro, but you need to stay awake. Talk to me." What's the point in saying such soft words to her? She's not going to make it. She's dying, you fool.

"What about? Noth' to talk about..." Daisy looked up at him; he looked so worried. She's never seen that worried look on his face except when they returned from his rescue when he learned about Caterina... "Why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"You look so sad." Daisy reached out with her free hand to touch him, her fingers slightly grazing his cheek before a sudden jolt caused her to cry out in pain. "You always look tired or angry, or you have this look, but you're never sad. When you smile...it's so much better."

"I am not sad; why do you think I'm sad?"

"'Cause I didn't listen. I even heard them warn me, but I didn't listen...shoulda listened...now you're sad." Daisy muttered as she looked up at him. "Spite probably is angry at me too...don't like making people upset."

"We are not upset, Tesoro, I promise you. He's yelling at me for not watching you."

"You were busy not getting stabbed as well. Not your fault. Spite...needs to back off for..." Daisy coughed another bloody cough, the iron taste making her want to throw up, "What does that mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"Tes, tes-o-ro-o? Tesro? Never heard that before. Never called me that." Lucanis tried to hide the shock with a smile and a cough.

"Maybe I will tell you once you are well enough to remember this conversation?" Lucanis smiled. Davrin called back to them, pointing to a door before rushing ahead. "We're here, Daisy; they will help you."

There was a flurry of shouts and demands that followed shortly afterward. Daisy was crying out weakly at every jostle of her body; the blades were barely staying inside her. The bandages did the best they could, but there was just too much blood. Daisy could feel the cold steel shift and move inside her with every twitch and movement. She thought someone was speaking to her, but her head felt so lightheaded and heavy that she couldn't understand some words. Daisy screamed when she was finally released from Lucanis's arms, one of the blades sliding out, followed by the other before they rolled her onto her side. There was more cursing and shouting, of course. Daisy just wanted the pain to stop.

"Please...someone...make it stop..." Daisy cried out, tears now freely falling as she struggled to breathe. Lucanis knelt next to her, taking her hand in his tightly. There was that look again; the panic and the worry all rolled into one behind his eyes. "Lucanis..."

"Hush, Tesoro. The healers will take care of you now. Please keep your eyes on me." Lucanis almost sounded like he was pleading with her, but that didn't sound right to Daisy. Why would he plead with her? She's the one causing the issues currently. He should be angry. Davrin should be angry, too. They all should be angry with her. Daisy could make out Davrin talking off to the side, but it was so much harder to hear. There were too many hands on her, pulling and tearing at her, fingers poking and prodding. A sudden rush of fear washed over her as her childhood memories replayed in her mind, the memories of the beatings she used to take as a child. The fear made her afraid, so she clenched her eyes tightly shut, trying to wield everything away, to make everything disappear. All the screaming they did, all the teasing and harmful words they told her. All the time, they would rip her clothing and call her a dirty whores daughter. "Daisy!" There was a call of her name so loud that she looked to see Lucanis even closer to her now. "Eyes open."

"I'm scared, Lucanis." Daisy whimpered as she gripped his hand tighter. Lucanis reached over with his free hand to brush back her hair, ensuring her ear cuffs were firmly in place so they couldn't fall off.

"I'm here." He gently whispered to her. "I'm here."

The poking and the prodding went on for what felt like forever. Daisy could lightly feel the healing magic wash over her, but she could barely feel it. Lucanis stayed by her side while Davrin was busy talking to the proprietor of the healing house, but they were getting a little bit heated. One of the aids to the healers suggested to Lucanis that he might want to step in before they would be forced to stop, whispering that the man in charge was a greedy bastard who didn't care if people lived or died here. Daisy squeezed his hand and told him to go. Lucanis nodded, asking the aid to take his place while he sorted out what was going on.

Daisy felt Lucanis leave, and a part of her wanted to call out, to tell him not to leave her, but she couldn't find the strength to. Her fingers and toes had long since gone numb, and she just felt so heavy. The bed beneath her was so soft and inviting that she didn't notice her eyes slipping close. The aid holding Daisy's hand looked at the healer with a grave expression before they turned their heads towards the doorway where her companions were not far away.

In the other room, Lucanis was going to murder the proprietor.

That is, if Spite doesn't gain control, does it. The rat-face man Davrin and he were talking to couldn't be the real person in charge; there wasn't a caring bone in his body from where Lucanis stood. Corruption was everywhere in the city they were in, but he didn't expect even a local healing house to charge people help before, let alone charge such prices. Davrin was starting to lose his cool when the comment of elves and other backhanded comments. The rat-face man went on about how, in these challenging times, they never knew if someone wasn't going to make it, so they 'changed' their policy that payment needed to be made upfront before anyone helped them.

"Our friend is dying in the next room, and all you care about is coin?!" Davrin got in close to rat-face, fits clenching as he stood firm like a brick wall. Davrin's gray warden stance towered over the man. "If she dies, you will not see tomorrow."

"You see, threats like that will only ensure your friend receives no help. Now, before I must kindly ask you to leave, do you have payment or don't you?" Lucanis could feel Spite beside him, the anger radiating off him like the pulsating headache coming on. If Sunshine dies, it will be on him, not you, which is no fun. Tell him to help her; he needs to help her. Lucanis glanced at Spite behind the man and felt a mutual agreement that should Diasy die, it would give him an actual reason to kill the man.

"You will receive payment once she is stable," Lucanis taking hold of one of his arms before he punched the man. The Crow moved silently in front of the rat-faced man, getting nose-to-nose with him. "And should she not survive due to your neglect, then I have no problem taking yours for her life." Before Lucanis could continue, there was a crash and scream from Daisy's room. The rat-faced man was pushed aside as Daisy's companions rushed to her side.

What they were welcomed to was the healer, standing over Daisy at the foot of the bed, healing her with a worried, scared look on her face. The aide was on the other side of the room and was getting talked down to a ghostly-looking woman. The woman was see-through like a spirit but didn't appear to be one. Another ghostly woman sat next to Daisy, her hand placed over Daisy's as if she could touch it. Daisy's face was paler now than it was when Lucanis left the room. "And who are you two?! Why is this hack healer not doing all they can for my daughter?!" The aide cowered and ran past the two men. The woman who shouted was a tall, heart-shaped face woman who held a certain coldness, but there was something...deeper to her. She was concerned, and her eyes betrayed her with how much. The woman kneeling next to Daisy was of a softer complexion.

"Who are you?" Davrin asked.

"I am someone you will do best not to continue to anger, young man. Now tell me why my daughter's heart stopped and what she is doing lying in such a state!" The woman moved closer, the stool in front of her passing right through her as she walked. The healer went to make a sound, but the woman rounded on her, telling her that until she was spoken to, she was not to stop.

"Her heart stopped?"

"I wouldn't be projected here if it didn't! Now, where is that rat-faced man I was told about?" The woman walked right through them and into the next room. Davrin went with her while Lucanis stayed behind, standing on the opposite side of Daisy. Looking at the woman, Lucanis could see that she was crying silent tears as her thumb stroked the back of Daisy's hand as if she could feel it.

"I thought she was silly putting that stone on Daisy's gift before she left. She told me that I would rather have her body back than get no notice. Seeing her like this...my sweet baby." The woman softly spoke, not really to Lucanis but not really to Daisy either.

"You are her mother?" Lucanis asked.

The woman chuckled sadly, "I helped raise Daisy. Valentina, the woman who just walked out, can be a bit standoffish regarding children and is not the warmest person to know, but she loves Daisy. It doesn't matter if they are related by blood or not." The woman moved to try brushing some of Daisy's hair to the side, but of course, she couldn't. Lucanis saw this and did it for her; the woman gave him a grateful smile. "What happened?"

"We were...fighting, and she stepped in front of me. She shouldn't have done that; I would be the one lying here, not her." Lucanis said. He could feel the guilt start eating him away as he continued to look at her, pulling his hands away. You always hurt others; it's always your fault. Look at her, dying.

"You must be important to her if she did that. I agree; she shouldn't have done that, but Daisy always puts others before herself. It doesn't matter if she gets hurt as long as everyone else is fine." The woman smiled softly at Lucanis. "Don't blame yourself. Just give her a stern talking-to once she wakes. Please sit; there is no need to stand." If she wakes, suppose she decides you're not worth talking to anymore. You almost got her killed.

"If she wakes," Lucanis whispered as he returned to the spot he was once at.

"She will; Valentina will make sure of it. Daisy never asks for help from us anyway; it's the least we can do for her." The woman watched him, her eyes flickering to the healer who stood firmly at the foot of the bed, arms stretched out. "Are you Lucanis or Davrin?"

"What?" This is interesting.

"Daisy sends me letters. Keeping me up to date with whatever she's doing. She mentions meeting...friends recently. From the list of names, I'm guessing you must be either Lucanis the Crow or Davrin the Gray Warden. I'm leaning more towards the Crow now that I'm looking at you." The woman softly smiled.

"Ah...yes. I am Lucanis Dellamorte. Davrin was the one who walked out." Lucanis could start to feel his heart hammer in his chest. "She's written about us?" Why is your heart beating so fast? She's talked about everyone else, not just you. You're not special; why would she find you any different than everyone else? Davrin at least showed that he cares, unlike you. Coward.

"Of course! Daisy hasn't stopped writing about you! Ah-I mean all of you! I am not too pleased about elven dead gods returning, but hearing about the friends she's made helps that she's looked after." The woman reached over to touch Lucanis to reassure him, and he swore he could feel some heat in her spectral hand. "Please don't blame yourself. Daisy will feel worse if you did."

"What does she say when she writes about...us? If I can ask?"

The woman's grin made heat rise to his cheeks. "Nothing grand, little bits of information. She's asked for advice on talking to...friends, but she's nervous about speaking out about certain feelings. Daisy has had a rough beginning, so connecting with others raised alongside the dead hasn't always been a strong suit here. It doesn't help that her mother never really gave her a talk about what to do in these situations. Spirits knows if I did, she would kill me." A wicked smile graced the woman's face. "Just don't tell her I've said anything to you about this. She hates it when I try to meddle."

"I promise, my lady, I will keep your secret."

"Good. I feel more at ease now that I've met you, Master Dellamorte. I know our girl is in good hands. When you can, you should talk to her about how you feel. You might just be surprised." The woman smiled a motherly smile at Lucanis, which caught him off guard. Caterina was never a caring woman; that is undeniable, as she never showed any caring affection towards him growing up. The woman in front of him helped raise Daisy, who has been nothing but kind and understanding since they met. Lucanis could see where she learned to smile so softly at others. Valentina then returned to the room, stating that nothing would impair Daisy's healer now that everything was taken care of. The woman looked at Lucanis and Davrin, saying that should the rat-face man give them any trouble, they were to contact her through the sending stone that was hidden in the charm Daisy attached to her ear cuff.

Then she was gone.

The other woman stood, gave them a bow, and then disappeared.

"Well...that was strange," Davrin spoke before turning towards Lucanis. "Who was the other woman?"

"A friend of her mother's, but she never gave her name. The other woman was Daisy's mother if you didn't figure that out."

"When she said daughter, I assumed so!" Davrin protested, his eyes then moving to Daisy. Some color had returned to her face, but not much. The healer, who had remained in the room the whole time, stopped healing to say that the immediate danger had passed. Daisy would still require healing in a few hours, but she would prepare a paste to put over the wounds in the meantime. "We should get washed up then now that she's stable."

"You go first; I will remain here until you do." Lucanis didn't even bother looking at the Gray Warden, his eyes never leaving Daisy's face.

"Alright. I'll also send a message to the others to inform them of what happened. Emmirch or Bellara could lend the healers a hand so that Daisy could be moved back to the Lighthouse sooner." Lucanis nodded his head, and Davrin left.

Now that it was just the two of them, Lucanis moved closer to Daisy. As his hand moved towards her, he noticed he was still wearing his gloves, stained with Daisy's blood. He removed them quickly, tossing them to the floor without a car. Lucanis double-checked that her earcuffs remained secured while gently brushing away stray hairs from her face. Her hand felt clammy on his own but didn't feel as cold as before, which was a good sign. He gently moved her hand to his lips, kissing softly on the back before resting his forehead.

"Come back, cara mia." Lucanis whispered softly, "Come back to me. Please ask me again what that word means. I wish to see you smile again at me, as greedy of a man I am." He kissed her hand again, eyes clenched shut as he felt the sting of tears. "Come back to me, I beg you."

~oOo~

*Some weeks later at the Lighthouse*

"I'm tired of this, grandpa!" Daisy yelled from where she lay on the sparing ring. Davrin and Lucanis are watching with amusement on either side of her, not even breaking a sweat from their training session with her. Emmrich was sitting not that far away, sipping tea while Manfred was standing behind him.

"Unfortunately, my dear, that is too bad. You are the one who decided to get impaled and worry everyone with your near-death experience." Emmrich said to her with an amused smile. Once Daisy was back on her feet, everyone had officially put their foot down, with Daisy not wearing more armor, let alone not carrying a secondary weapon. Davrin and Lucanis both volunteered to help teach her.

"They're going to kill me!" Daisy said, getting to her feet with a huff.

"Not if you don't keep your arms up!" Davrin shouted before rushing at Daisy again. She screamed before turning around and running away, taking shelter behind Lucanis.

It was going to be a long training session.

[genuine-wrestleboy]

the attraction (1/2)

words: 5,031

(here on ao3)

It isn’t that you’re easy to scare, no matter what your friends say. So maybe heights make you nervous, and blood, and the concept of eternity, but none of that has ever stopped you. On the contrary, you like it. Love it, even—the adrenaline, the thrill, that tingle down your spine. Haunted hayrides and rollercoasters and horror films, anything that strips away the thin veneer of safety for long enough to get your heart really pumping. That’s why you’d accepted the invitation tonight, even though you don’t know the first thing about Freddy Fazbear’s, or the rumors your friends excitedly discuss on the drive over.

“Wait, there were, like, real, actual murders here?" you ask, peering out the windshield at the grungy-looking building. It's smaller than you'd expected, the neon sign above the doors flickering weakly.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” your friend tells you with gruesome excitement.

You frown a little. “That seems kind of tone deaf, doesn’t it?”

Another friend rolls their eyes. “There weren’t any real murders, it’s–ugh  what's the word? Urban legend. Creepypasta shit.”

The final member of your group cuts the ignition. “If we see a photonegative Foxy I will fully shit my pants, just warning you guys now.”

Your friends laugh, and you turn back to the old pizzeria, something warm and familiar kindling in your chest. Anxious anticipation; the first sparks of fear.

It's a predictable pace from there. You made sure to get here as close to opening as you could, so the line's not too bad, but the tickets are steep.

"This better be terrifying," your friend groans.

"I better be able to fuck Freddy Fazbear himself," agrees another.

"Yeah? Is that gonna be before or after you shit yourself?"

A shrug. "Depends on what Freddy's into."

"Guys, the line's moving." You love your friends, but if you have to listen to another second of this there are going to be very real murders here tonight.

"Ooh, nice, you wanna go first or last?"

You give this question the consideration it deserves. Which kind of scared do you want to be? Do you want to face the horrors ahead and force yourself to push through them? Or do you want the eerie unknown of endless possibility at your open back? Either way is bound to get a scream out of you, which you know is mostly why your friends offer you the choice.

"Last, I think."

"Alright! Get thee behind me, scaredy!"

"Harr harr," you reply dryly.

Single file and giggling, you friends put their hands on one another’s shoulders and shuffle through the blacked-out doors. You follow suit, but the friend in front of you slaps your hand off their shoulder like a bug.

“You know you grab too hard,” they whisper harshly.

“Right, sorry.” You knot your hands into the front of your shirt instead.

It’s a bit like losing a sneeze, at first—tension building and building and then fizzling out into one long, empty corridor after another. Dim, streaky fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting strange shadows in the corners, but there’s not much else for them to work with besides the creepy crayon drawings tacked to the walls. 

Then, slowly, other things start to appear: the rusted skeleton of an animatronic, strung together with wire like the bones of a museum dinosaur; a dark-stained purple vest and bowtie behind a pane of glass alongside a picture of a waving yellow rabbit suit; a skillful reproduction of a red animatronic head with a loose, toothy jaw that your friend tries to stick their hand into.

Somewhere near the shadowed ceiling, a speaker crackles to life. 

“Please don’t touch the displays,” says a muffled, tired-sounding voice.

“Boo,” hisses your friend, retracting their hand. “It’s not like there’s anything else to do. This place is fucking boring.”

The rest of your friends mutter in irritated agreement. You pinch your mouth shut before you can say something you’ll regret. This hasn’t been what you’d expected, sure, and you’re not exactly scared, but you’re definitely interested. Maybe it’s just because you didn’t know anything about Fazbear’s before coming here, but you think if they just pivoted a little and turned up the lights this place could be really cool, part horror and part history.

Or they could've hired some actors or something, you suppose, but that's neither here nor there at this point. 

The next hallway is entirely wallpapered with vintage advertisements and framed posters, faded photographs and glossy magazine pages and a huge full-blown painting of a goofy-looking bear with a top hat and gentle eyes.

"Mr. Fredbear, I presume." As you lean in to squint at it more closely, you notice a newspaper article pasted on the wall next to it, photocopied and blown up in size to make the letters legible even in this near-dark. 

Kids Vanish At Local Pizzeria—Bodies Not Found

Ah, the creepypasta bullshit. Your eyes briefly scan the body of the article. There’s a surprising amount of detail, considering, you suspect, that not many people are expected to read it. A couple steps further along the wall, you spot another article, and you hold your phone up to it for a little extra reading light. You pause for a moment, in case the voice on the speaker has an objection, but if he does it’s apparently not big enough for him to mention it.

Five Children Now Reported Missing. Suspect Convicted.

“...where a man dressed as a company mascot lured them into a back room, eugh.” If they’re giving you backstory now, maybe this is where it starts to gear up, where the story comes in and the scares really start.

“Hey, guys, check this out.” They’ll like this, you think, gesturing them over. You hope so, anyway.  “Guys?”

You look up to another long, empty corridor, and your heart drops into your stomach. Your friends are gone.

Shit, they’re going to be so annoyed if you get yourself left behind. 

You abandon the articles reluctantly and follow the only path until you hit a bend in the hallway. To the left, there's a glass window, and then what looks from here like a dead end. To the right there’s a makeshift plywood door marked Cast Only, but the sign is in rough shape, and the door itself is hanging slightly ajar, like someone has just gone in. 

Feeling a little dumb, you reach out and try a tentative knock. At least if it is actually an employee-only area there might be someone who can help point you in the direction of your friends.

From behind the door comes the sound of movement—heavy, halting footsteps, the beginnings of a cry. Then a sort of wet cracking sound, echoing silence. A thrill goes through you, and you feel suddenly perfectly clear, excitement honing you like a blade. That's terrifying. As you push open the door, you wonder if they only replay the track when someone is close enough to hear it or whether it's on a loop, whether you'd hear it all again if you stayed put and waited long enough.

You pass through into a cold, dank room that reeks of mildew. The only light comes from an abandoned industrial flashlight on the floor, the bright arc of its cracked bulb swaying ever so slightly side to side, as if it's only just been dropped. It makes the room into a funhouse mirror of itself, shadows stretching off in every direction like hungry searching fingers. It also makes it impossible to tell how big the room actually is, the opposite walls lost to darkness.

Fortunately, you’re no amateur, and you know the best way out of a labyrinth. The wall is distressingly sticky under your hand, but you keep your fingertips pressed steadily against it as you make your way forward. The humid air of the room is like wearing a damp sheet over your head, and your skin tingles with gooseflesh beneath it. Everything feels muffled, your own racing heartbeat the only thing your straining senses can detect. 

The flashlight on the floor wobbles one more time and comes to a rest.

Your next step nearly takes your feet out from under you. Your shoe slips on the floor, the surface suddenly slick, and you barely manage to catch yourself on the wall before you go down. You let out a little involuntary yelp of surprise; it sounds like a gunshot in the otherwise silent space. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you stare out into the darkness, still as a startled rabbit. Nothing stirs, but you could swear you feel the weight of someone else’s gaze.

You pause, scarcely breathing, to give your eyes time to adjust, and slowly the floor separates into grimy checked tile and a spreading pool of thick, dark liquid. A little further down, you can just make out the limp shape of a figure slumped in the corner. Curiosity draws you closer, and you pick your way carefully around the blood, leaving shoe-shaped smears around the edge as you go. That has to be a safety hazard, right? It’s amazing that no one has fallen and gotten hurt yet—or sued Fazbear’s Fright, more likely. Maybe they have really good lawyers.

The figure in the corner seems to be a young man, blonde and ponytailed, wearing what looks like a security guard’s uniform. You brace yourself for a jumpscare as you approach.

 Then you see the angle his neck is at. His back is propped against the wall, but his flat, lifeless eyes stare straight up at the ceiling, mouth hanging slack. There’s a faint trace of blood on his teeth, and a great deal more where a considerable section of his shoulder has been torn away completely. It’s an incredible piece of work, but—honestly it’s edging on a little too realistic. A deep, nauseous discomfort settles thick in the back of your throat, and you step backwards, away from the wall and the corpse, and straight into something else.

You turn, hands raised, and look up and up into the grim, grinning face of an animatronic rabbit.

"Hello!" Adrenaline spikes through you, the one-two punch of terror and delight. It’s always made you a little prone to blurting. 

The rabbit stills, one broken ear flopping as the sculpted head tilts slowly to the side. You do your best not to touch the actor as you duck around him and flee in the opposite direction, away from the door you entered through. 

After a moment, you hear him follow, the same slow, metallic footfalls that had enticed you in here to begin with. You feel yourself grin so hard that it hurts; this place is fucking good. 

The beam of the flashlight clings by its nails to a bank of bulky steel lockers near the center of the room, and it’s these that you aim for. They give off a bluish light of their own, maybe not lockers, after all, but some sort of machinery with faintly glowing panels on their pitted faces. You follow the line of them until there’s enough room to go around, and though there are glowing panels on this side, too, the light from the flashlight is all but blocked. You have about two feet of dimly-illuminated floor before the room descends again into utter blackness. Behind you, the hiss and click of struggling hydraulics tells you that the actor in the animatronic suit is closing in fast.

Okay, deep breath. What’s your next move? Fight and flight tangle in your chest, knotting themselves together as effectively as a noose.

“Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run."

You freeze. Horror slithers down your spine and coils cold in the pit of your stomach. How can he do that with his voice? It sounds…shredded, like the throat that produced it barely remembers what it is. Your own throat activates automatically in sympathy.

But he’s singing. You can’t tell what direction it’s coming from, but you can tell that it’s getting closer.

“Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run.”

Two knocks, trailed playfully along the barrier behind you. Then one deafening bang. You jump, the spell broken, all but throwing yourself into motion.

A mitted hand snaps shut around your wrist and yanks you back. Before you can even process what's happening, your back hits metal with enough force to knock the breath clean from your lungs. The rabbit animatronic leers down at you, both long arms caging you solidly in place. Washed in blue, the finer details of his face are lost, but you recognize enough to connect him to the drawings on so many of the posters in the lobby.

“Hello,” says the Springtrap. The smell that rolls out of his mask when he speaks is a bit of a demented touch.

"Oh wow," you breathe. “I didn’t know you guys were allowed to touch us.”

Springtrap makes a gravelly, gargling sound that you realize belatedly is laughter. He leans in, leans down, looming ghoulishly as he stares you down with unblinking interest. His eyes reflect the cold blue light like polished silver, half-hidden by the suit’s heavy lids. You meet his gaze and feel suddenly strangely exposed, like you might as well be standing here in nothing but your socks. Your heart races in your chest, and, humiliatingly, another, lower part of you starts to respond, too.

Lifting one huge paw, the actor in the Springtrap suit runs the pad of his thumb down the side of your neck, and a gasp drops from your lips. The texture of his fur is like greasy velvet rubbed the wrong way, waxy and matted, and you feel the bite of metal as he hooks the digit into your shirt collar and drags it aside. Your skin tingles in the wake of his ungentle touch.

“Can you feel that?" The question bursts out of you like nervous laughter. “I mean, those gloves, do you, are they easy to use? I’m not—I don’t want to seem like one of those assholes who think they’re too good to be scared, I’m honestly terrified, you’re just—” don’t say hot, don’t say hot “—gorgeous.”

Oh god, that is so much worse.

“Gorgeous,” he repeats, and you could swear he sounds amused.

A blush tears its way across your face. “Wait, no, I meant—I mean, I did mean it, I just, mostly I meant that whoever made that suit must be, like, incredible, it looks amazing, I—I am so sorry, I babble when I’m scared. Usually not this much though."

You hear that broken laughter again, and Springtrap reaches and spreads the broad length of his hand along your windpipe. He doesn't press down, but he doesn't have to; one sharp fingertip traces the underside of your jaw, and your breath stutters and catches hard.

"And what if I told you," he says, "that I made this suit?" There’s a grin in there somewhere—you can hear it, even if you can’t see it. There’s also, you think, the hint of an accent, something round hidden in the harsh rasp of his consonants.

"Did you?" you ask dumbly. 

"I did," he confirms. 

"Well you totally killed it. It’s—it must’ve been a real labor of love." Jesus, what has your life come to? You're making first-date small-talk with a haunt actor who has his hand around your throat and you're barely resisting the urge to grind against the seam of your jeans.

"It was." His grip tightens, and you do your best not to go completely boneless against him. You can hear how breathless you are when you speak, but it feels sort of fuzzy and far away.

"It's cool that you get to wear it, too, then. Instead of just, like, watching someone else do it."

Springtrap stills. "That I get to wear it," he says. His voice rests on a precarious note between wistful and annoyed.

 A beat of silence, snapping-tense. He stares at you, thoughtful in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s contemplating your words so much as he’s contemplating you. When he turns your face towards the wall, you let him, swallowing hard against his palm. Hot, foul air stirs your hair as he nuzzles along the juncture of your jaw, your pulse fluttering madly at his fingertips.

“Funny, frightened thing." There's something almost wondering in his voice, almost soft. "What am I to do with you?”

You honest-to-god whimper at that, a thoroughly telling sound you don't quite manage to stifle. 

Springtrap chuckles, rumbling and low. “You seem like you have ideas.”

This might be the most embarrassed you have ever been in your life. Unfortunately, the same could probably be said for how turned on you are.

“Are they, uh, bad ideas?” you ask.

A single trailing finger scrapes itself down your throat, your chest, and the topmost button on your shirt pops free and clatters away. 

“There's a very good way to find out.”

The thing is, you don’t need him to tell you that it's a bad idea, it is an objectively bad idea. He’s a stranger, and you’re in public, and there are—oh god, oh no no. The voice on the speakers, don’t touch the displays, and it’s not that you think Springtrap counts as a display, per se, but.

“Don't they—aren’t there cameras?”

Something about the question seems to strike him as funny. He tilts his head, and you can see the flash of a leer behind his teeth. Another button snaps off with a snk.

“Not in here.”

"Oh," you say.

"Oh," he confirms smugly. 

With a flourish, Springtrap claims a third button, putting your shirt officially past the point of damage that is going to require explaining to your friends later. That, and the red, raised line bisecting your chest, a stinging arrow that leads directly to where his finger pauses with intent between your tits. A low rumble rattles through his chest, the shredded suit honing the harmonics into something snarling and inhuman.

God, you are so fucking wet.

"Fuck," you breathe. You catch yourself pushing your chest forward, tempting his touch like some horny, preening bird. His hand returns to your throat, steady, merciless pressure until your vision starts to soften at the edges.

"Language," teases Springtrap idly. 

"Yes, sir,” you laugh wheezily. You can't help it; maybe it's the oxygen deprivation.

The sound melts on your tongue as he takes your breast in one huge paw, kneading the sensitive flesh experimentally. Heat thrums between your legs, and he hums, pleased, at the needy little noises it draws out of you instead. Despite the hand on your throat, he touches you with this strange, unexpected tenderness, like he hasn’t touched anyone else in a long time. Hesitant. Hungry.

“How refreshing to find someone who knows their place,” he murmurs softly, and, god, that does something terrible to you. You gasp as his thumb brushes roughly over your nipple, once and then again, panting into the stale air as you cant your hips unthinkingly in his direction. He chuckles, rubbing soothing circles against your rabbiting pulse point. “As I thought. You’re just a slut, aren’t you?”

“Hn–!” It hits you like a shock, white heat touching every nerve in your body. Your pussy aches for attention, throbbing and slick and so sensitive you’re pretty sure you could come with a single touch.

“Hm?” prompts Springtrap blithely.

You swallow a moan. “Yes, sir.”

"Good," he says approvingly. His voice is rough as he leans in, "And good little sluts who know their place deserve a reward, wouldn't you agree?"

"Holy shit." If you were any more coherent you'd shove his hand down your pants yourself. "Yes, please, yes, yes, sir."

Mercifully, whatever playful objections Springtrap might have to your language this time don't stop him from obliging. He makes quick work of the rest of your shirt, the remaining buttons sliced apart like butter. The skin beneath them feels burning hot.

This is such a bad idea, what are you doing, are you insane? Are you stupid? Springtrap dips a teasing touch low along your stomach, and you have your jeans undone and around your thighs before your brain even has time to process the thought. He laughs, hooking a claw under the waistband of your panties.

“Greedy,” he says fondly.

“God,” you gasp. Your face flushes with heat, but it’s impossible to distinguish from the heat taking you apart everywhere else.

Springtrap growls and tears your panties open with an effortless twist of his wrist. “Close enough.”

The first hint of pressure on your clit almost makes you howl. You bite down on the heel of your hand, your head hitting the metal behind you with a hollow thunk. Springtrap rubs you in slow, steady circles, watching you raptly with his bright, pale eyes. Pleasure builds fast—you’re already so worked up, it won’t take much to send you over the edge at this rate. His finger eases back towards your eager hole, and you buck your hips forward, a cry falling from your helpless lips.

He presses his fingertip to your entrance. "That's right," he coos sweetly, "Show me how badly you want it."

You know some of those fingers are sharp, you have plenty of evidence on your skin to attest to that fact. It should matter more, probably, but then again a lot of things should probably matter more to you than they do. Right now all you can bring yourself to care about is the slow, ready stretch as you lower yourself onto him, glorious fullness that feels like you've been waiting for it your entire life.

Springtrap allows the movement, following without ever fully removing his grip from your throat. Between his hands, your breath tears into desperate shreds, tight, shallow inhales that leave you dizzy and loose. You roll your hips, pleasure bleeding lazily through you, and it's so good you could sob.

"What a shameless display." His voice wants to be light, but there's a red thread of hunger in it that he can't quite hide. "You'd let anyone have you like this, wouldn't you?"

You keen high in your throat and shake your head, too overwhelmed to form proper words.

"No?" he asks. His thumb grazes your clit, and your whole body jerks at the wave of heat that rolls through you. "You expect me to believe that, with how easily you spread your legs for me?"

You think, giddily, that you might never spread your legs for anybody else again. Springtrap hooks his finger, pressing against a spot that makes you see stars. A moan rises and spills, liquid and sweet, from your tongue, and honestly there’s a chance that you’re maybe also drooling a little, too. He laughs, curves himself to speak directly into your ear.

“Or, let me guess,” he says conversationally, “—is it because I’m gorgeous?”

He punctuates the final word by thrusting another finger into your pussy, and you cling to his arm reflexively as your trembling legs threaten to give out beneath you.

“Ohhh, god, yes.” You’re wet enough that the pain is only an echo, pleasure the screaming constant. He feels huge inside you, like something you’ll never properly recover from, something you’ll need forever. He ghosts brief bursts of pressure against your clit, knowing and cruel, his breath ragged as you fuck yourself raw on his fingers.

“Needy thing, I can feel how close you are, shall I let you come?”

“Please,” you gasp, “please, yes, please let me come.” Everything is swimmy and tingly and sweet, your world reduced to the tight coil of heat in your core and the places where Springtrap touches you.

Sharp fingertips dig into your neck. “Watch your manners, slut.”

Fuck. “Yes, sir, please, sir.” You feel like a match just struck, stuck suspended in the moment before consuming ignition.

Springtrap growls, angling his wrist to slam a thrust home to meet your desperately rocking hips. “Good. You’re so good for me.”

Anything, you think senselessly, you could do anything if it meant he’d tell you that you’re good, and you would, you want to, you—

“Go ahead, come for me, darling,” he hisses, and you clamp your thighs shut around his hand and obey.

Climax consumes you, blissful combustion at last, wrings a hoarse shout from your abused throat and whites out every other sensation in its blazing wake. Springtrap waits patiently as you ride it through, his touch gentling, leaving a litany of little nonsense niceties against your skin as your senses return to you. His fingers slip out of you, soreness already blooming. But bright, giddy joy seeps in to fill your chest, and you laugh, feeling it reverberate against his palm.

“Would it be weird if I asked to give you my number?”

He pets your hip idly, chuckling warmly into the crook of your shoulder, and for a moment you think maybe you’re on the verge of the world’s best and most inexplicable meetcute.

Then you hear the door on the other side of the room creak open. Reality takes you by the shoulders and shakes, and you’d jump back if you had anywhere to go. Springtrap stills, head tilted, listening with an obvious tense recognition. A voice—familiar, the same voice from the speaker, muffled and tired, only now it’s obvious that he’s in the room, and he’s—

He’s calling your name.

“Are you in here?”

You look to Springtrap but he’s just…gone. Without so much as a goodbye, all six foot huge of him, silent as a ghost into the darkness. All the warmth in your body floods away–and you get it, sort of, at least you try to, but mostly now you’re left standing here feeling stupid and—oh fuck. You scramble to get yourself sorted, yanking up your jeans over a cold, uncomfortable wetness and clutching the ruined edges of your shirt together. You turn just in time to see the edges of a light bob across the floor.

“Shit. Shit." He calls your name again, this time noticeably more frantic.

"I'm here!" Your voice is a dry rasp; you clear your throat, not without pain, and try again. "Hi! Here!"

A figure rounds the corner wearing what you recognize now as a security uniform. His hat is pulled low over his forehead, and whatever it doesn’t obscure is covered by one of those paper surgical masks. His light cuts across you; you lift a hand to shield your eyes. He pauses, then seems to start, freeze a little. Then he rushes over to you, pushing his hat back and bending to examine you, half reaching out as he does.

“Please tell me you’re alright.”

“What?” you ask. “I—yeah, of course, I’m fine, I—” You’re probably a little scratched up, but most of that is at least still partially hidden by your disheveled clothes. You look down at yourself, the mess now illuminated by the guard’s cold white light.

You’re covered in blood. Smeared low on your stomach, on your hip, poking suspiciously out from under your shirt. Your hands are tacky with it, too, leaving a trail of smudges everywhere you’ve touched yourself. You pointedly do not check the flies of your jeans.

“Oh, it’s fine! It’s not real,” you tell him awkwardly.

The guard has been made up for the house, and he’s wearing these incredible contacts, black scleras that turn his pupils bright white. They dart over your face with something that feels terribly akin to pity.

“You saw him?” he asks. This close, his voice sounds as rough as yours.

“Him?” you parrot dumbly.

“Shit,” says the guard, glancing away. “Never mind. I, uh, need you to come with me, okay? It’s not—your friends were looking for you.”

“They were?” you ask. You feel sort of stunned, swarming inside like a hive of angry bees, too full of buzzing emotions to hear any one more clearly over the others.

The guard waves a hand in front of your eyes. It’s skeletally bony and painted in bruisey purples, presumably to match whatever they’re doing with the rest of his costume.

 “I think you might be going into shock. Can I touch you?”

You nod. He takes your arm gingerly, and you sort of sag against him, your own weight suddenly a lot to ask yourself to handle. Together, you pick your way back across the dark room—he brings you the opposite way, avoiding his mannequin counterpart—and into the building proper, where he lets you lean against the wall in the dim hallway. It feels cool out here, making you very aware of everywhere that you’ve sweated through your clothes.

“Wait here,” says the guard. “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna get you something.”

Something? you wonder, but he’s back almost as soon he goes, tossing you a bundle of fabric. You shake it out curiously. It’s a sweatshirt, faded purple and soft with age, the remnants of white lettering arcing across the front: H-U-R-R-I-C-A-N-E. 

“Thought you might need it more than I do,” the guard tells you. He has a faint accent, you realize, just like.

Just like Springtrap. What’s going on here?

“You don’t care if I get it dirty?” You lift your bloody hands illustratively.

“It’s seen worse,” the guard assures you. Little crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. You wonder if they’re grey under those contacts.

“Well, thank you. I really appreciate it.” You pull the sweatshirt over your head, immediately relieved to have none of your undergarments a sneeze away from being on display.

The guard shrugs, sweeping his flashlight across the hallway like he’s looking for something. “Least I could do. Do you feel like you can walk?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m—” you flash a thumbs-up. “I’m golden.”

That makes the guard laugh, a hard, cold snort of mirth. He gives you another long look, familiar in its surveying weight. Then he lifts his hand slowly, taps a bandaged finger against a coppery nameplate on his uniform shirt.

“Hi, golden, I’m Mike.”

[itsyagurlchip]

Can u tell me more of ur au plz?

you're in luck! I still have a few character ref sheets left! I'll give more characterization and backstory for these lil guys!

also sorry if this comes out a bit late- im taking a break from art for a while and while im typing this (07/30/24) i'm also finishing the visualization ref page for reader.

(current chip) ANON KISSING YOU ON THE CHEEK SWINGING YOU AROUND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS ASK!!<3333 MY IDEAS ARE ALL OVER THE PLACE CATCH UP OR BE CONFUSED.

It's both an AU, and a fic so I apologize if things get messed up. So when I say "Undertake Sans/Papyrus/Person" it refers to my AU rather than the original "classic". My fic refers to the "6 skeletons, one human" trope and the AU focuses on details from the Undertake universe.

I may have over explained, but I wanted to keep that clear- And most of this post will take the time to talk about the plot and lore of the fic.

As I've said before, Undertake is just a sillier version of Undertale where shenanigans happen all the time on the surface. But I've never explained fully why. Welp! Here you go....

We all know how the trope goes. Sans tries to get his Dad back, and succeeds! Except this time, it's on the surface. And Frisk doesn't feel like...Frisk. Anyways, bringing Gaster back from the Void has caused complications within the universe, about 5 years after monsters resurfaced.

"One time things" turn into regular occurrences, stereotypical situations that would never happen in real life are happening, it's overall stupidity!

But Sans and Reader are the only ones who "know" about this change. Sans just rolls along with it, using this as a breather from past resets. Reader, on the other hand, has whiplash from the whole thing. When did everything change? and why? Something felt wrong in their SOUL. Everyone else seems to fit into this random "normal" and it pisses reader off.

But they're a kid. They don't know what they're talking about, so they ignore them as best as they can.

-

Since every monster is on the surface, and pretty much all need jobs, Sans becomes a scientist of sorts. He represents most monster scientists, and helps humans with the evolution of magic-science. He doesn't work all the time, that's a big role to fit in; something Alphy's would gladly take, and so he mostly works on projects at home.

Integrating n shit, I'll leave those details to the fic.

After getting licensed, transferring his master's degree in physics, and getting all the tools he needs, he decides to re-build gaster's machine to bring him back.

Mind you, this is a year after they get to the surface, so nothing has changed yet. When Gaster came through the machine (I'll draw it so you can get a better representation of what it looks like) he was horrified.

Why was he melting? His face was now stuck in a forever frown. Looking at his hands, you could still see the holes engraved into them from when he was first born.

He began to sign something ancient, a language horrifically nostalgic he almost forgot to catch what he was saying.

But before he could respond, the world went black. There was a wild pulsing in his SOUL before the world went black.

^^reader parallels this btw

I'm not gonna drop too much, because I don't wanna spoil any plans I have for this, but thank you so much for this ask!! I might even start writing chapters in January

here's reader's character sheet btw. (and when you guys read it do understand that you dont have to portray them in the same way i do, nor do you have too be an ass abt it)

©KAL pls don't steal, repost, trace, or whatever an art theif does. you can inspire yourself! just tag me to let me know<3

y'all better clap for me

im on a writing roll

☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･(title)☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ᯓᡣ𐭩(warnings:) ᯓᡣ𐭩(note) ᯓᡣ𐭩 (summary)

૮₍˶• .•⑅₎ა tags: @kittykittyanon @bonefanatic @oleander-nin @towomatos @thealphagirl

૮₍˶• .•⑅₎ა@ziipzeepzop-eez @wheezdostuff @spongejuice @cyb3r-st4r @matteo-hamato

@clown-froggi @acesgarden

if you would like to be added, check my blog. if you would like to be added, check my blog. SEE? I SAID IT TWICE!!

[zelphin124]

Summer x YN Short Story

It's about time I feed the simps 👀.

Anyway, my short stories won't have any images until I can adequately draw. People don't like the use of AI, I guess.

Time to use your imaginations, you simps.

TW: SUGGESTIVE, PG-13

~o0o~

The ball wasn't as loud as you expected it to be.

In fact, one of the main reasons why you didn't want to come was the discomfort of a loud environment, along with the group of people that would constantly crowd you. Although you would suck it up until the end of the celebration, you couldn't say you enjoyed the mass amounts of people.

You weren't exactly sure what the event even was. Ink Sans had invited you and told you to wear something nice, as it involved people of royalty showing up. When you arrived, however, he was nowhere to be found. You figured he forgot about it... again.

As you stood by the snack section, you reopened the invitation. Apparently, this AU you were in was called SeasonTale. You'd never heard of it, and you didn't have much time to explore before being guided to a fancy palace near the beach. The AU in the doodle sphere seemed odd, too… instead of a single sheet of paper or one island… this AU had four papers overlapping each other, and the island version was expansive and had four sides to it. You wondered if that was due to the four seasons inhabiting one alternate universe.

You sat the glass of your favorite drink on the table before entering the crowd. Maybe Ink was somewhere in the mass of monsters, and you didn't see him. He was way shorter than everyone else anyway. You weaved through the crowd to spot a familiar scarf-

"Pardon me, dear~"

You knew that voice was directed at you. You spun around, looking for the source of the... very soothing and charming voice. You'd never heard someone speak so eloquently, which only grew your curiosity.

You spun around a few times, unable to find the source of the voice until he stepped forward. Immediately, you saw how tall, powerful, and proud this skeleton was. He wore a fancy yellow crown that signified status. His face had many yellow prints, including a star and a sun. You guessed that he usually wore a yellow outfit to compliment his sun-like eyes, but he was dressed in a beautiful royal blue garment that fell to his feet. His pants fell into his long white boots. His eyes were locked onto you, and his smile was always present on his face.

He looked like a king.

You greeted him with a bow and a few chosen words, unable to mutter anymore. Your favorite-colored outfit flew against your body gracefully as you paid your respect. Perhaps he was just a king of the Summer Kingdom, but you had a feeling it was much more than that.

"No need to bow, darling~" he shook his hand. "Being in your presence, the honor is mine."

You weren't sure how to reply to such a compliment as he took a few steps towards you. He towered over you and continued to smile as he looked down. Your face became flushed when you realized his ribs were showing.

"The music will start soon," he extended his hand toward you. "Allow me this dance?"

Although you couldn't dance very well, you figured denying a king to a dance would be rude. You took his hand gently, realizing your hand was small in his.

"Heh, your hand is adorable," he didn't hesitate to grasp your hand before pulling you closer to him. "And so are you~"

Your blush covered your face, and you could not react appropriately before the king swept you off your feet into a rhythmic dance. The only thing you could muster to do was to look up at him as he guided you across the marble floor.

You decided to concentrate on dancing. However, when this man was leading, it didn't seem so hard. In fact, you realized he was perfectly guiding you in each step, making your task very easy as the swaying music continued to gently play in the background.

The murmurs around you hushed quietly. You felt various people staring at you and the king before some of them decided to dance themselves. Despite your wandering attention, the king's gaze stayed transfixed on you.

"What's your name, doll?" His voice as smooth as butter rang through your ears. His smile had softened as his feet still moved gracefully.

You tell him your name with a couple of stutters. The butterflies in your stomach and the heat coming from your face did not help you speak clearly. You were so flustered by this monster's presence, your mind felt fuzzy. Did he put some sort of spell on you? Did someone put something in your drink earlier? Were there-

"What a lovely name for a glorious person," he soothed, his right hand pulling your waist closer to him before twirling you around. "You may call me Summer, skip the formalities."

The smirk that grew upon his face was accompanied by a small chuckle as he continued to observe you. It was obvious he found whatever noise came out of your mouth adorable. Normally, you would find someone staring at you this long to be uncomfortable. But this king, Summer, he was different. You wanted him to continue looking at you. You wanted him to stare, as if you were addicted to his gaze.

To say you felt attracted to him was an understatement.

Summer continued to ask questions about you, always putting in some sort of pet name like doll, darling, sweetheart, sunflower, sunshine, and many more. He constantly flirted with you. Although embarrassed, you didn't exactly want him to stop. He was giving you so much attention, almost too much. It was nice and something you hadn't experienced before.

"Has anyone told you that you're the most beautiful person in the room?" Summer cooed. "Cuz' you are, sunflower."

Finally, your brain was able to function. You asked him what he ruled over, hoping to change the subject.

"I rule over all of SeasonTale, darling~" he smiled as he slowed down, swaying more than dancing. "And you?"

You chuckled in embarrassment, as the only thing you really ruled over was your stuff animal collection.

The sun king laughed in amusement. "How adorable!" He glanced to the side before looking back at you.

You decided to interrupt him by asking him why he was paying so much attention to you. Although it wasn't a topic you would have brought up initially, due to the amount of flirting he did, you were curious.

"If it wasn't by my actions..." Summer paused, twirling his thumbs inside of your hand palms. "I've taken quite an interest in you."

You told him to drop the formalities.

"All of em?" He chuckled before his face got closer to your own. "You... you're stunning... you're stunningly beautiful... I've never seen anyone like you before," he whispered, his voice soft. His grip tightened around you, and his eyes were shining. "My dear, will you give me the honor of getting to know you? I can't let an opportunity like you go..."

The king of SeasonTale was enthralled with you and wanted to get to know you. You thought you were dreaming. You weren't going to let this go to waste. You accept his offer, asking him what he would like to do after the party.

"Oh, not tonight," he chuckled, his hand grazing your cheek as he sighed. "I have too many kingly things to do... What about tomorrow? I can take you to my favorite cafe... It'll be on me, I'm sure you'll love it, my little sunflower."

Your heart was pounding harder than you thought possible. Your face was so red, it was unbelievable. You barely were able to utter the word 'yes' before you hid your face in his chest.

The king chuckled and stroked your back gently. "You adorable little thing~" he smiled before pulling you away to look into your eyes. You would always remember his smirk.

"See you there, cutie~" he cooed, leaning closer to you until you felt a gentle kiss on your cheek. It was gentle, soft, and sent shivers down your spine.

Before you could process what was happening, Summer backed up, winked, twirled in his robe, and vanished from sight.

"There you are!" Your friend Ink came bounding toward you. "I was looking for you everywhere! Granted, I was thirty minutes late... but dang you're really good at hiding in the crowds!"

You couldn't even look in his direction as your own hand traced where Summer had kissed your cheek. You stared at where he disappeared. You were in awe of what had just happened.

He captivated you.

"Y/N?" Ink's eyes became question marks as he stepped in front of you, snapping you out of your gaze.

You greeted Ink before taking his hand to go find Error. Apparently, the artist wanted to annoy the destroyer 'for funsies' as he put it. You glance back at the spot where you last saw the king. You blushed as you saw a note on the floor that he knew he left you.

Cocoa Cafe, 1pm, CoffeeTale.

________________________________

Continue?

YES NO

[squeakadeeks]

i havent overshared something extremely complicated and personal on here in awhile so its time to fix that

you might recall that after this past summer i've been trying to recover from anorexia. progress has been....ok. i suppose better than nothing but im certainly in the rocky/awkward phase of it now. Thats part of why i've been doing more illustrative art/doll art as opposed to sharing images of myself/things that relate to my appearance like cosplay.

which brings me to the primary thing thats on my mind which that historically, whenever people give accolades or shout out my strengths as a costumer, a majority of the time its on my shilloweete. and sure, i do work a lot with petticoats and padding to make things more dramatic, but fully and genuinely 90% of that is just because of how disproportionately weird my measurements are with respect to my head and skeleton. its not actually a skill, talent, or anything i've put effort into, its just a consequence of anorexia. and its hard because when people draw attention to it, i cant be like "thanks. its because ive been intentionally and resolutely trying to off myself for the past 10 years."

i guess this is something that i shouldn't be picky about, i feel bad getting upset over compliments but i do wish i could be recognized more for my design work, material strategy, and actual craftsmanship over how i look. especially because of the next thing, which is the fact that i get...a not insignificant amount of feedback from people saying they wished they looked like me in a post, or saying that they dont feel like they can cosplay the same characters because of their body.

and at the risk of being controversial, i know that oftentimes the response to statements like that are "COSPLAY IS FOR EVERYONE <3" or a similar sentiment, but this ignores that fact that cosplay is not the same for everyone. because look, there was a brief period in 2016 when i actually was at a healthy weight and my treatment in the cosplay community was like night and day. i dont know what to say when i know that the way we're going to be viewed for doing idential things is going to be significantly different, and i think back to how much praise i get for things that are disordered behavior. If those comments wernt there...would anything else actually fill that void? if that person wasnt giving me a compliment on how much i "actually look like that character", would they have said anything at all?

one of my goals is to eventually get to the point where i can make good on my word and my internal morals and try to challenge those ideas by existing in spite of them, but dawg. i just simply do not have that mental resolve yet. at the very least ive wanted to address it on tiktok and IG where this problem happens the most, but i both dont know how to approach the topic responsibility and if i could handle the upsetting comments, be them well intentioned or otherwise.

[itsthislake]

MORE CRINGETOBER! Days 6-9 (nice).

Original prompt.

Commentary under the cut:

Day 6: So I immediately drew (hah) a blank and then remembered I literally have a cat!SQQ AU and it spiraled from there. This one is actually Shen Jiu not Shen Yuan, and i like to imagine he's thinking about knocking YQY's cup off the table just to spice things up in this godawful peak lord meeting he's obligated to attend.

Day 7: I swear I was going to Nami, i swear, I even did the sketch! But then I finished Usopp and I just knew in my heart that nothing else I drew that day would match his level (and, to be fair, i did try, though perhaps i gave up a little too quickly— but can you blame me? look at that usopp! it's distracting!) (Also here's the base reference I used)

Day 8: This was more of an excuse to draw the twins than an effort to draw that insane dorito, but it turned out really fucking good anyways.

Day 9: Look. Look. When I read rarepair/crossover ship I immediately wanted to draw Brook x Sans fanart (because it'd be hilarious) but then i realized I would have to draw two skeletons and (while i did try briefly) I straight up decided that the headache wasn't worth it. So then I was like, oh I can draw Luffy & Frisk fanart instead, since they're both little rays of sunshine and it could be fun. But then I wasn't feeling it either so I ended up with this instead. Which. It's less a crossover ship and more a crossover AU but whatever. Idk it took me like an hour to finish because I kept getting distracted by the idea of an OP AU where the ASL fall into Mt Ebbot (Mt Columbo?) and the monsters are just the rest of the OP cast or something. I might write about that later idk.

Overall— still having fun? Yeah.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

S/O is a amazing artist who draws every single day for hours, however they never let skeleton see what they're actually drawing. Hiding away in a dark room, and blocking the screen whenever Skeleton tries to look.

One day, Skeleton finds a folder on S/O's computer that contains hundreds of drawings of Skeleton, and then they find another, and another, and another. Thousands of drawings all containing Skeleton in various different situations, and poses.

This is seemingly what S/O has been working on all this time, nonstop drawings of Skeleton, every day for hours.

Undertale Sans - He snorts. That's sure a hell lot of skeletons you got there. He won't tell anything, he's too nice for this, but he will definitely do more bone puns than usual which you found extremely suspicious. He might also put a lot of Papyrus gift bones in your bed for some reason. He will never tell you he knows. But he knows.

Undertale Papyrus - Even if he is very flattered you think he is so cool you would draw him thousands of time, he is just a little bit concerned about the number of drawings. It's quite a lot. Maybe a little too much. Hum. He won't say anything to not make you uncomfortable, but you can see him trying to look over your shoulder every time you're drawing and tries to make you draw something else by pressuring you with his presence lol.

Underswap Sans - He comes to you, your notebook in hands, and inocently says to you that if you wanted to see him naked so bad you just had to ask. You flush like hell and he is for sure very proud of himself.

Underswap Papyrus - He panicks and tries to back away. He slips on a thing on the floor and crashes in your art stuff in a very loud rumble. You run, scared, and find him lying on the floor, entirely orange and cover in paint and ink. He stays very still just in case it's enough for you not noticing him. Too much feelings for a day.

Underfell Sans - He chuckles evily and decides to do the same by drawing you naked. His plan was perfect until he remembered he has no idea how you draw people. You look like a rotting potato with sticks for legs and arms. Uh. Maybe it's not a good idea after all. Too bad that, as he's about to discard it, you snatch it from his hands. He feels so stupid he wrote your name at the top of the picture. He teleports away to cringe in his pillow, face entirely red. Please never mention this ever again.

Underfell Papyrus - He frowns, then counts the ribs on the picture, then lifts his shirt and counts his own ribs. He gasps. This is wrong! Your drawing is missing two ribs! How dare you! He stomps to join you and gives you your notebook. "IF YOU HAVE AN OBSESSION WITH MY BODY AT LEAST DRAW IT WELL. IT MISSES TWO RIBS. ALSO THIS IS NICE AND MAYBE I LIKE IT." ... He turns bright red. He coughs and stomps out of the room, not looking you in the eyes.

Horrortale Sans - Wow. You really like him a lot uh. That's kinda nice. He's not too sure why there's thousands of drawings of him though, but, uh, he guesses you like him very much. He carefully tear off some pages so you don't notice and he puts one in his pocket and one in his diary to make sure he remembers what he just saw. He then comes back to you and hugs you, purring as hell. You ask him what makes him so happy so suddenly, he just shrugs and hugs you tighter.

Horrortale Papyrus - He doesn't know what to think of this. Willow is still struggling a lot with how he looks, and the fact you draw him so many times is both flattering and a bit... Well... Maybe you do that because he is weird and it fascinates you or something. He's a bit uncomfortable and prefers to act like he sees nothing. You can see him looking a bit uncomfortable when you're drawing and looking at him for too long. Maybe one day he'll tell you why, but he's not comfortable enough for right now.

Swapfell Sans - One evening, you enters in his room and finds all your drawings on the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Nox switchs on the light and slowly turns around on his chair to look at you. "What do you have to say to defend yourself?" You gulp. Before realising he has a stupid fake nose and mustache. You try to stay serious for more than 5 seconds but loses it. What the hell? Nox doesn't care about the drawings. He thinks it's entertaining how obsessed you are with his body. Do you have something to confess? He's listening.

Swapfell Papyrus - He bursts in the room, in a red dress, a wig on the head, high heels and bright lipstick, and he throws himself on your lap screaming "Draw me like one of your French girl!" in a melodramatic voice, holding your notebook to your face. You are devastated, face entirely red, and you can't look away as he is wiggling his fake eyebrows at you sensually. You want the couch to eat you alive.

Fellswap Gold Sans - It's really hard to make Wine blush. But here he is. The more is looking and the more he's blushing uncontrolably, and the more he tries to stop looking, the more he keeps looking. When Coffee opens the door, he lets go a high pitch scream and screams "I WAS NOT LOOKING NAKED DRAWINGS OF MYSELF DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE SAY SOMETHING BROTHER!!!" Coffee just stares at him, eyes frowned suspiciously, then shrugs. "k', have a nice day mr tomato". He gasps, offended. "I'M NOT A TOMATO!" You enter the room at this moment. He looks at you and flushes bright red. Shit, he's a tomato.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - Oh. You're doing this too. He flushes bright red. He can't really say anything. He has like thousand of drawings of you as well actually. Maybe you two could exchange notebooks one of these days. ... Or maybe not. That's weird. Coffee needs some time in his closet to think about it. He might still have your notebook with him to look at your drawings.