#no energy for tags anymore

[poet-to-none]

Lone sire longing to see his family Nicolas and Magnus | The Vampire Chronicles | Graphite See on Ao3! See on Pillowfort! See on Bluesky!

[chiptrillino-art]

(ID in ALT Text) Happy very, very late Mother's Day!

I am not saying that zuko is sokkas substitute for kya. or they look in any way similar! The whole concept here is that something was happening at the moment, be it how they were laying in bed, how the hair pooled over the pillow, or how sokka was able to hold onto it. It just brought sokka back. It triggered a memory, and suddenly he relived a brief memory. Making him suddenly miss his mother again. hope you enjoy!

[junocornkiwi]

🦊х🔮

- You're a jumpy one, aren't you? I may grant you comfort, if you wish.

- U-uh, no, thank you. There's no need. It's not that I don’t want you, uhm... It's just... Can you put me down already. Please.

my huge melancholic druid likes to carry gale in a bridal style 😌❤️✨(they both enjoy it) (astarion wants a turn too tho)

[acoraxia]

Here’s some actual lore

Haha, heart pacts am I right?

[sad-leon]

crawling out of the shadows with this as an offering

[spellbird]

(Read from left to right)

Had an intrusive thought about Kazuki's facial hair and just had to make a little comic about it! It's been a while since I've made comics, so sorry that it's kinda messy/ just sketches. I tried to clean them up as best as I could!

[kirby-the-gorb]

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[mari-lair]

did you give up on the sif is out ask blog?

I did, I'm sorry anon :(

I tried to do it cause I wanted to feel more like a part of the fandom (so many aus have asks blogs and everyone here is so friendly) but it just stressed me.

[ehlnofay]

Martin thinks that he always kind of knew he was going to die today.

But by Akatosh, he didn’t think it would be like this – like Kvatch all over again, Kvatch folded in on itself, the streets overrun with monsters triple-time as thick, all metal and sulphur and blood. They were supposed to make it in time. He was supposed to light the fires. He was supposed to be crowned, and let some new, less visceral kind of horror begin – they were supposed to make it through – they were supposed – they supposed – but the streets are shaking with Dagon’s footfalls, and Martin can’t take a step without kicking a corpse, and the Hero of Kvatch is heavy-too-heavy against his shoulder, and it was always going to be like this. It never could have ended any other way.

He can feel prayer bubbling up from his scraped-raw throat, bitter as bile, held behind his teeth. O Akatosh, first of the gods, steady my hand… He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t mouth it. Tries not to think it, though it’s a rhythm born of years of habit, once a comfort, now just – empty. But it unspools in his head all the same. Pax is leaned heavy against his shoulder, one arm hooked loosely around his, hand pressed against the sticky-dark spot on their armour; they’re short, but they’re not light, and Martin’s arms burn as he tries to hold them up. The sky flares red. His eyes sting with smoke. Grant me the strength to endure. Onward, onward, onward.

Pax’s feet skitter uselessly against the blood-slick cobble. Martin almost trips over a leg, its silver-polished greave shining in the hellish light. The rest of the body is not there. He can taste smoke. He can taste bile. He can see the stained glass, the altars, the prayerbooks, his throat flayed raw begging for a salvation that would never be granted; this is not Kvatch, this is not Kvatch, but the sky burns and the streets are filthy with bodies and there is too much noise to talk, and Pax is damn near dead weight against his side, still holding out their blunt little excuse for a sword. Martin drags her on through the street. Just to the temple doors – just to the temple doors – the side of her head presses fierce against his ear. Martin’s knuckles are white with effort. There is blood on his fine silken robes.

Again, the streets shake; Pax staggers at his side. Akatosh, protect us. Martin doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the red-stained sky blurring against body – he can already see the cobbles cracked under the weight of feet too massive for his mind to make sense of it, a body – man or monster, he doesn’t know – crushed beneath the heel. Pax is gesturing at the colossus’ ankle with their sword as if they could possibly do anything at all. They’re bleeding.

“Come on,” Martin says, shallow and jagged; it stings to speak, and there’s so little point, his ears so filled with the clashing of metal and horrible, inhuman screams that there’s not room for anything else. His grip tightens around Pax’s shoulders. Her face is set, stubborn and pale – and she’s so stupidly young – and Martin –

There is an emotion so large it threatens to split him at the seams, and they don’t have time for that, so Martin runs. Staggers past the barely sketched-out shape of the devil menacing the skies, child hero in tow; every breath stinks of fear and ash. His throat prickles. If he doubles over with coughing, Pax will fall, there, onto bloody cobblestone, with their toothpick of a blade and their empty quiver, their sharp-spined bow slung carelessly over their shoulder, pearl-grey gambeson slowly darkening with blood, so Martin doesn’t cough. Blessed are we, the faithful…

They don’t fall, and they aren’t crushed, darting around the earth Dagon stands upon, slow and sluggard and so astonishingly lucky, and Martin gasps, and he does not cough, and Pax kicks at a scamp that gets too close and waves the sword at it just enough to slice a shallow cut down its scrabbly little arm. Martin’s so focused on holding them up that he can’t even cast. It isn’t even the one prayer running inescapable through his head – it’s a mess of them, all twisted and torn to pieces, shreds of one, half a sentence of another. He nearly trips over on the stairs. In the crowd, armour flashes, bright as steel and thoroughly outnumbered. He should pray for the Blades, too; he would, if he thought it would do anything. But it didn’t, last time. And this time, he has something better up his sleeve than prayer.

“Almost there,” he says through the din, and Pax keeps their sword arm raised even though they don’t know how to use the bloody thing, and there’s blood on their Kvatch gambeson, and there’s blood on Martin’s regal robes. (It was going to be him – that dremora’s blade whip-thin and wicked and dark as soot, jabbed thin as a sewing needle through the slippery-soft fabric, hooked under his ribs or pierced through the soft meat of his gut. Pax, empty-quivered, still drawing his sword, angled his own body to intercept; caught it in the thick pillow of his armour, in his own skin. Martin spat a spell from his fingers that sent the thing crashing to the ground and grabbed Pax well before they began to follow.) The earth shakes, again, and Martin’s shin hits the edge of the next step. He can’t hear anything over it all, but he sees Pax suck in a breath, sharp and pained. She takes another step. He follows.

When they reach the dark-stone door, someone screams, high and terrible, and there is no time to stand on ceremony; Martin throws himself at it, shoving it with all his weight behind his shoulder, and together, they stumble inside the temple, ash blowing in behind them to scatter itself on the sacred, stagnant floors.

The door swings closed again; the sound is swallowed up, faint and muffled. Martin can hear them both breathing, ragged, loud. Pax hasn’t lowered their sword. It looks even more dull, here, contrasted against the stonework. They’re so quiet. He hates that he’s learned how they act when they’re in pain.

(It’s holy ground. It won’t be enough – it barely was in Kvatch, it’s nowhere near it now – but it’s not nothing. There’s blood spilling over the tile.)

Martin sucks in a desperate, dragging breath. He doesn’t let go of them.

There’s not much light in the Temple, but it’s enough; it’s clear of smoke and that all that burning reddish tint, outside, and now that Martin has a moment to look them in the face Pax looks awful. His skin is ash-pale and slick with sweat, fringe sticking to his forehead, brow creased as if with concentrated effort and jaw taut. Every breath rattles in his chest and whistles out between his teeth. One palm sticks to the place in her side where her armour is dark and sodden; Martin is afraid to peel it away. It can’t be a wide wound, the cut not even enough to tear more of the gambeson than is covered by her hand, but shit it’s a lot of blood. It’s so much blood. He was never an especially good healer and he can’t even begin to accurately estimate it but it’s too much; it’s entirely too much. And it was because she was protecting him. It’s enough to make a man sick; but there’s no time, so Martin isn’t.

It's so much blood. Pax’s eyes are unfocused, drifting somewhere over his shoulder. His face is so clammy and so young – by the Nine, he’s a child. He’s a child and a hero and Martin’s friend and he’s bleeding out on the Temple floors. Martin hates himself, a bit, for going along with any of this in the first place, for letting them send a fifteen year old child out to risk killing themselves, only to get them here – this place, bleeding out onto sacred marble, where they always would’ve ended up anyway. All roads lead to this.

Inevitability. It’s an idea that showed up often in the sermons Martin used to help give. The Amulet is blood-warm and heavy round his neck.

“Pax,” Martin says; one arm is threaded under her armpits, and he lifts the other to press gently to her cheek. Just under her eye there’s a dark spot of ash; he swipes it off with his thumb, watches the slow, sticky blink she gives in response. “Hey. Are you with me?”

“Always,” she mumbles; her voice is sludgy, like it’s caught in treacle, but the word comes without delay – like it’s instinct, like there’s nowhere else she’s ever imagined being, and doesn’t that just make a man want, a bit, to throw himself off a cliff. (She’s gone to hell, on his word, who knows how many times over; Martin doesn’t need her half-dying drive to affirm her loyalty to him. He knows. He knows. He thinks he might be sick.) She blinks again, and then her eyes sharpen; she throws a tired look over her shoulder at the cool stone of the door, the world beyond muted, as if this moment occurs on its own; like they’re flies, frozen in amber. She says, “It won’t keep them out forever.”

Holy ground was barely enough in Kvatch; it will be barely anything here.

Martin’s arm is aching. He’s not that strong. “Long enough,” he says, with far more brusque certainty than he feels, and he casts a glance over the smooth marble floors, the well-wrought stonework of each plinth and pillar. “Come on. Sit down.”

Arms burning, he helps them to the side of the room, leans them against the leverage of the smooth white wall; still, they don’t sit, and Martin has to help lower them down. Pax grunts like a shot animal as he slowly sinks down to the ground, Martin’s hands still bruising tight on his shoulders, sword slipping from his sweaty grasp to clatter on the floor. His bow, slung over his shoulder, presses awkward against the wall; his empty quiver lies at his hip, useless. His hand is still pressed to the stain on his gambeson.

Martin watches him breathe out through gritted teeth, his tongue pressed ragged against the gap behind his lower canine. His head tips back against the wall. His gambeson, blood-spattered, barely protective, is tied with a row of neat leather cords; Martin reaches for one intricate knot and begins to tug on the ends.

Maybe it’s because he’s a bit frantic, that he just can’t get it to untangle – maybe it’s that the whole world is ending outside the door and they have a minute to stop it, if they’re lucky. Maybe it’s that Pax’s head is lolling, a little. Maybe it’s that it’s all on his head – has been on his head since any of it began, since he knew any of it at all, and now another city is falling, and he can still smell smoke, and he has a minute, if he’s lucky. He feels like they should have more time. He needs to undo the gambeson. He needs to make sure they’ll be all right. Martin was always going to die today – he feels it, settled comfortable and hazy over him, an unerring certainty in the very marrow of his bones, a knowledge passed down from the man they call his father – but Pax sure as shit isn’t. Not if he has anything to say about it, which he does, because it’s been on his head since the beginning and he’ll shoulder it all but he won’t bear this. His fingers scrabble, desperate, at the ties; every moment he waits is a murder, but leaving them here would be murder, too, and Martin won’t have that blood on his hands. And the knots won’t just come easy. He’s lost so much time and he hasn’t even gotten half.

Pax is looking at him, her eyes blood-dark. “You’re not going to get it,” she says, and her voice slurs, a little, in her mouth; pain or blood loss or shock, almost definitely, but Martin was never a particularly skilled healer and the magic he spent to get them through that horrible crush outside has left him too tapped to be able to probe. “They’re tied too tight.”

Martin can hear the ringing of metal outside. The earth is still shaking.

“Fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the vowel, and turns to rifle through their quiver. He hears them exhale, long and shaky, as he searches.

They don’t even have any fucking potions – he’d take anything, at this point, anything at all, he’d take the foulest cheapest draught as long as it would slow the bleeding, or even just a bandage, but there’s no bottles or flasks and no loose cloth. There’s one salve, pale and sticky in a purple-stained pot, but that can’t be used without access to the skin and probably can’t be good in an open wound in any case. There isn’t anything. There isn’t anything at all. Time is slithering away between his fingers. There are broken bits of prayer sticking like glass shards under his tongue, again. He doesn’t want to say any of it; it sticks in his throat, anyway. Lord Akatosh, sacred dragon, walk ever with me; under your gaze I will not fall short. Pax is looking at him, brow creased, face the very picture of dedicated focus; their hair, done in a long, simple braid back when they were just supposed to be speaking to the Council, has come half-loose, looping strands hanging about their face and trailing over their eye. Martin lifts a hand – notes, with detached interest, that it is shaking – and brushes it out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” he says – and he is, by the Nine, it settles with all the rest of the guilt in his gut, all to be burned soon enough – “there’s not time for me to heal you properly. How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Their skin is still clammy to the touch, sweat-damp wherever he touches; their eyes are more focused now but still screwed up with pain.

Pax gives a short puff of air. It’s not a laugh, not in his state, but it’s not all that far off; his voice is gravel-rough. “Got stabbed, Martin Priest. ‘S not great.”

Stabbed in the gut, while protecting him – bleeding all over the sanctified floors, the grout will never recover, and why is he thinking about that when the blade could have caught an organ and Martin would never know because he’s never been that good a healer. The ground is shaking again. They’ve been in here a minute, maybe, and he already feels like they’re stealing time. The seconds are slipping away quickly. He’s digging his fingers fiercely into the cloth of Pax’s shoulder; if he doesn’t hold onto her somehow he thinks he might fall down.

(He’s glad she’s here, and he hates himself for being glad. She’s bleeding. It should be his blood.)

His face must be doing something truly impressive, because Pax cracks a grin, wide and crooked and sticky-mouthed. “Calm down,” she says, the words thick as treacle in her mouth, “I got at least ten more minutes in me. What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Martin echoes. That statement is nowhere near as reassuring as she seems to mean it to be; he shakes his head. Looks back at the doorway, still closed – noise of battle still raging, earth still trembling, but none of it imminent, probably, not within the next three seconds – and surges forward to wrap their shoulders in a fierce hug, careful to keep away from their abdomen, his cheek pressed against their hair. They smell of sweat and smoke and blood; he takes a deep breath, anyway. “I’ll do the rest, Pax, just – rest.” His voice cracks, again. “Be okay.”

(There’s more prayer pressed into those two words than in anything else he’s thought today.)

Pax reaches a hand up to pat his sleeve; her head, still, is resting against the stone, the set of her shoulders a little tauter, a little more alert. “I can still help,” she insists. The sword – blunt little instrument that it is – lies on the floor, tacky with monstrous blood; she doesn’t even try to reach for it. The bow slung over her shoulder is jabbing him in the collarbones. Martin pulls back enough to shake his head.

“No,” he says; because they can’t. The rest is for him and him only, so no-one else has to get hurt. Pax got him this far – got him out of the wreckage of Kvatch – got him out of the stagnant mire in his head – got a blade in the gut, for their trouble, and even if Martin had anything else to ask of them he couldn’t ask for more.

Pax glowers, at that, the crease reappearing between his brows; Martin could laugh, if it was another day, if they had another moment. He presses his face to the top of Pax’s head, instead, nose dug sharply into his hair; and he breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes.

He’s not an orator, but the way Pax talks they seem to think he’s accustomed to giving grand speeches; he’s certainly had enough practice lately. His breath shudders. He dredges up what words he can. They’ve been in the Temple a minute already; he doesn’t think they can ask another.

“I,” he says, and breathes; “I cannot stay to help rebuild Tamriel – that must fall to others.” He couldn’t have been Emperor, not ever – he’s never been able to fix things, not on this scale. The weight of the Empire would have run him into the ground. He would have hated it. It would have killed him. (Didn’t it?)

Pax’s hand skims the fine cloth at his elbow again. Voice slow, they say, “What –”

“I know now what I was born to do,” Martin says, and he tries to smile. He doesn’t know if they can feel it. His hands clasp the sides of their face; their hair is tickling his nose. They feel cool to the touch, dead-fish clammy; but it will be all right, because once it’s all over the healers will come in, better at flesh-craft than Martin’s ever been, and they’ll fix it. They’ll fix it all. And the Blades are here, however little Pax usually chooses to engage with them, so he won’t be alone. And the Elder Council, the whole Empire, will owe him a debt of such gratitude – he won’t be alone, again. He’ll have options. He’ll miss him – but he’ll live. And Martin will, for once in his sorry life, have actually fixed something.

His friend’s hair smells like smoke. Their skin is shining with sweat and grime. “You’ve been such a good friend in the short time that I’ve known you,” he says, and he’s smiling, he knows it, a melancholy thing pressed into their hairline. His voice is shaking, just a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t – I couldn’t stay to know you better.”

“Martin,” Pax says, and he pulls back. Their face is creased, ash and blood smeared over their cheekbone. Suspicion lines the tilt of their brow.

Martin smiles, still. His palms, rough and dry, cradle her face. “But now I must go,” he says, gentle; “The Dragon waits.”

And Martin, for one, is done waiting.

He pushes what magic he has left into his hands, sunshine-bright; Martin is no great healer, particularly not when his reserves are tapped, particularly not when he can’t even see the wound, but he can at least soften the edge, dampen the overwhelming pull of the pain. His hands sting with the effort, his head spins, the ground shakes; and one of those has nothing to do with expending himself. Right on time, it seems; the Amulet of Kings hangs warm and heavy around his neck.

Martin stands, though his legs shake; stumbles a step backwards; turns to face the dais in the middle of the room, the shallow marble dish of it lying cold, the pillars around it as stark and foreboding as the bars of any cage. He runs.

“Martin!” he hears behind him, because Pax is Pax and of course they won’t let him go easy; the earth shakes, anticipation winding up into a wiry coil in his gut. The Amulet is hot enough to burn, bright as the sun – he heaves himself up onto the raised platform, reaches to unloop it from around his neck –

The ceiling caves in, and Martin throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the implosion of dust and grit, scraping in a breath thick enough to choke. His ears are ringing. He manages to squint up, catches a glimpse of a massive fist swiping the rubble away from the hole, the glint of a battle-axe, a silhouette against the burning red sky, roiling and howling like a column of storm. Martin can’t even make out a face, but he knows, somewhere deep and solid, that it’s looking at him. He meets its gaze, the Amulet raised high in his hand.

All prayer has deserted him, now, all the rote lines and careful patterns he leant on for so long slipping away from his fingertips as if they were never there at all. All he has is please, weighty, guttural, and he thinks it might mean more than any of the rest of it. Please. Please. You owe me this. The Amulet of Kings burns in his hand.

“Martin!” he hears again, hoarse and desperate; he looks. Just once. Pax has dragged himself across the dust-coated floors, bow and quiver abandoned somewhere behind him; his face is covered in dirt, hair come half-loose, eyes stubborn and fierce and wild. He feels his eyes crease, the lightest echo of a smile. He’ll miss them, wherever he goes next. Pax screams, “Don’t!”

Martin Septim was always going to die today. It is, perhaps, one of the first things he’s ever done right.

Martin smashes the Amulet of Kings on the cold marble dais, and the world erupts in gold.

[goldkirk]

hey this isn’t aimed at anyone in particular but I’m saying it for the record here: if I tell you no, please stop messaging me about fundraisers and mutual aid.

I get enough messages that it’s impossible for me to keep up without devoting at least half an hour each day, when I’m not even on tumblr that long most days. Me having a boundary about this isn’t a moral failing, it’s a lifeboat for me on my own blog.

In my personal life I’m already advocating and donating literally as much as I can spare. This is not me not caring, it’s just me not willing to interact with that on the one place I go online to not interact with irl news and world events for the most part.

I cannot be upset all the time. I cannot be upset everywhere. I cannot use all my emotional and mental energy fielding my own upset from ongoing events. My options are to hold boundaries about this or stop coming online at all.

I’m all for sharing information and signal boosting to reasonable extents, but the scale of it this year is so large and so enduring that it is literally not possible to for me to participate on every account I have. I’ve previously shared links to Gaza eSIM donations and a major hub of verified Go Fund Mes here and elsewhere online. We, the online humans, know how to look those things up ourselves by now. There are many, many people choosing to do advocacy work, and right now, I can’t be one of them.

If you’re extremely upset when I tell you I can’t share/donate right now about a Gaza family or personal fundraiser you ask me to share here, just unfollow and block me. That’s what those buttons are for. Protect your own emotions and energy and get me off your feed instead of staying upset and continuing to engage with online people or content that upsets you.

Please don’t send repeated angry messages based on manufactured purity politics and moral outrage into my messages and inbox when I exercise the right to run my own blog.

[dreaming-of-barbi]

That's so fucked up that people are romantizing Franco, because even Red Barrels are showing him as a total creep and disgusting person. In Outlast Tag I have a feeling that some artists are making him completly different character, making him charming/safe/lovely. I even have seen some people who were drawing him with normal face (without big forehead) and you couldn't tell them that it's the right character design! I feel like Franco enjoyers are more agressive than fans of other Outlast character. Even with Coyle/Eddie simps they seem to understand that they are evil and they murder others, but with Franco I feel like they can take it when someone tell them that he's grown up, murder people in very brutal way and his voice lines are just disgusting... it really seems that people are getting agressive only because someone tell some shit about 🎀✨️Franco🎀✨️. I know his fans isn't the only one that have stick in their ass (cause I seen a lot of shit bout Coyle/Big Grunts/Easterman etc.) but yall need to understand that FRANCO IS A GROWN ASS MAN and you would run for your life if you'd meet someone in irl as 1% fucked up as he is. Saying that he's just a Baby and he made nothing wrong is just 🤮 and problem is in yall if you justificate him and things he made.

idk how to tell you this ,,,, but this game is fictional. The characters are fictional. You're free to feel however you want about them, just like I and anyone else is.

I partially agree with the part about changing his appearance to make him look more "normal" or whatever, but at the same time people are allowed to interpret their favs however they want to. They can draw / write for him however they want to. I don't like "fixing" his face, just because it (personally) feels like saying "he's too ugly", but again, that's just me. As an artist, I know that people are going to have different interpretations of a character I like. It's just part of other people existing in the world. Not everyone thinks like you do, and that's okay.

Do you know how many posts I saw (and STILL see) about Eddie Gluskin, doing essentially the same thing as what you said people do with Franco?? That man would cut you open to "make a baby in you" no hesitation and people still ""romanticize"" him (me fuckin included I LOVE YOU EDDIE). Its just part of liking fucked up characters, some people are going to want to make them more "normal".

Personally, I see the normalization as more like wanting to give him some normalcy in his life, because of his past / lore. I love the idea of letting Franco have a normal life, be a normal person. A life where he never had to deal with the stupid Mafia stuff, had a decent father and never ran into Murkoff, having a normal, happy life. But, I also seriously adore his original, fucked up character.

Honestly, who actually cares if people are "justifying" his actions??? None of them are real. He is not real. I have never understood the sentiment that you have to make sure people know you don't justify a fictional characters actions... they are not real. It's not a real person. None of the things he did happened.

Maybe it's just me, but I would not run from someone like him. That's not some edge lord "im so evil and dark" bs but because of my real life experiences. Been with and around people in my life / family who are quite like him and I didn't run.

I imagine some of us are using it as a sort of coping mechanism, because (at least for me) some of us dealt with people who treated us like he would. Though, that's getting into personal territory, and I won't try and speak for others.

All I can really say is either learn that not everybody's going to have the same ideas as you or block the tag. Sorry if that's too harsh a response, but life is too short to really give that much of a fuck about someone /something other people like.

And I've said this before but this is literally Outlast, all of the characters are this fucked up, it's not just him.

Like does no one remember Outlast 2??? Does no one remember the pile of dead burnt babies, or the hundreds of other fucked up things in that game?? I really feel like Franco does not compare.

So, can we please just be over with this now? I mean, drama is totally fun and I love it, but I can imagine others don't.

[lost-my-sanity1]

yeah bye <3

[semi-sketchy]

I know this is beating a dead horse at this point, but I just started thinking about this the other day and...

How many people that were previously enemies has Sonic ACTUALLY befriended?

Like my knowledge of some old games and the handhelds ain't great, but...

There was Knuckles, who I think is the only one in the classic era.

He never really befriended Gamma in SA1, just left him to Amy.

Also he didn't befriend Chaos, just beat the anger out of him.

The next one was Shadow in SA2, although they're still kinda rivals?

I don't think Rouge counts in SA2 since she wasn't really an enemy of Sonic specifically, even in Heroes it's really Sonic and Shadow that start the fight.

Gemerl is a robot who was reprogrammed to be friendly, I wouldn't count that as "befriending someone".

Him and Jet are rivals in every Riders game, this never changes.

Blaze in Rush is someone that fought him and they became friends, so it's clear cut, she counts.

Silver in '06 does as well.

Do we count Shade from Chronicles? I think she had a boss fight. I know very little about that game but it's not canon, right?

Merlina is kinda a grey area? Like they were friends, he stopped her evil plans and was still nice to her. I don't know if in context that meets the criteria.

On top of that I don't think the Knights of the Round Table count. Sonic is there to take the swords and they work together at the end. I don't think there's any hard feelings, but don't know if this counts as "friends".

Sage could be the next example, but she's still loyal to Eggman. I don't think what they briefly shared was friendship as much as Sage wanting to save Eggman.

I haven't played Superstars but Trip doesn't even have a bossfight, does she? I don't think she counts.

Not looking at the method, just purely if they became friends down the line. Out of all of those, there's 4 total (if you count Shadow, which I do) with 1 it's complicated and 1 non-canon. That's very few when you consider how large the game cast is.

An overwhelming majority of his friends weren't ever hostile with him to begin with, like the Chaotix, Amy, Tails, Cream, Emerl, Big, ect. There's plenty of other cast members that are still have him on their shit list, like Eggman, Infinite (if he's alive), Fang, Metal, Eggman Nega, the Deadly Six...

Now I'm starting to wonder where this idea of it being a frequent even came from.

[v-poreons]

One unfortunate side effect of Coven's luck charms and potions is her patrons' bad luck gets chased onto her, making her way more prone to accidents than usual.

I thought it'd be funny if a common occurrence for her is: one of her experimental potions falls off a shelf. She goes to clean up the mess and cuts her finger on the glass. She instinctively puts her finger in her mouth to soothe the cut, and ends up experiencing the effects of the potion. It happens to her way more often than she'd like to admit. Anyways these are some instances of different potions mishaps she gets into lol

[spotaus]

Hello guys! Today I'm posting a super self-indulgent lil drabble based on @ancientschampionau 's RealAge AU! (This is non-canon!! Just a silly concept!!)

This is 90% just me playing around with the idea of the boys story from the perspective of a random monster who lives in town! Light is a flame elemental who runs a small garden of their own, but mostly works for Grillby in his restaurant. They don't know nearly *half* of the gang's story, but they're fascinated by what they do learn over the course of a few weeks.

Uhhh. No proof-reading or anything here since it's just me being silly- Thank you Ancients for not minding me butting my grubby lil hands in and doin a goofy with it!

...

   The day wasn't too busy. At least, it was never too busy in town, but sometimes it got busy in the little restaurant that they called their home away from home. Grillby's was the go-to spot for everyone in town, and some nights they'd have to bring out extra chairs just to seat everyone. Those nights were always the most charming, hearing all the familiar voices of their neighbors rise and fall like waves as they recounted their weeks.

   Of course, Light liked unbusy nights just like this one too. Nights when they only had a few customers getting a drink or a late-night snack before they went home and hit the hay.

   Right now there were just a few regulars who Light recognized. A bird monster, and a dog specifically were sat not far from them on the otherside of the counter. Light was awful with names, but knew that these two were here every night. ...And they knew the two always had some sort of drama they were eager to share. Grillby was less inclined to let them spread rumors in his earshot, but Light was always curious and willing to humor them.

   "Ladies!" Light greeted the pair as they sidled up to the space before them, only the counter separating them. "How're you two doing tonight?"

   Both monsters looked up at the excitable greeting, and they both seemed to perk up a bit at Light's presence.

   "Oh, we're doing just swell, dear." The dog monster replied eagerly, her smile growing a bit. Light didn't miss how their flames reflected and highlighted the Grey that was growing around her muzzle. "We were worried we'd be stuck with your spoil-sport boss all night!" She teased then.

   Light knew everyone was fond of Grillby. He was just likable like that. So when the bird laughed a bit, Light joined in.

   "Hardly! Couldn't imagine a nice night like this without a good chance to hear the tea." Light assured them, which made them perk up even a bit more, "What do you have for me tonight?"

   The ladies looked between eachother, before the bird monster made a little sing-songy whistle. It drew Light's full attention.

   "We have a few newcomers to town!" She chimed, and the dog monster nodded her head in agreement. "They're staying with Sans at the moment. At least, that's what my son says he overheard!" She added. "That boy overheard a phone-call that nice Papyrus boy took from his brother, and it sounded sudden!" She sounded proud.

   Light had to admit, they were surprised. Normally the ladies would tell them of a new batch of sheep brought in or a baby foal being born. On the more exciting days it'd be a scandal having to do with some young strapping man coming to town, but often that just ended up being the plot of a movie they'd watched that day.

   Hearing names, though? Sans and Papyrus lived a little ways away, but Light knew of them. Hell, everyone in town knew them. The ladies had never tried to make a fake story about them, and Light was interested. New people staying in town with the brothers? Light had moved in from the city a few years back and they remembered being lucky they knew people here. If these newcomers were real, they were lucky to have the brothers to watch out for them.

   "New folks you say? Have they been into town at all?" They asked curiously.

   The two ladies shook their heads a bit, "No. Sounded like they just moved a few days ago." The bird monster answered.

   The dog monster leaned forward, "I heard from the grocery that Sans was definitely buying a few extra things, though. Seems like they'll be staying a while." She deduced.

   Light wasn't quite sure how right the ladies were, and they could tell they were going to try and dive into a guessing game that would most likely end up more insulting than insightful, so Light laughed a bit.

   "Well, we'll just have to do our best to make them feel at home, right ladies?" They insisted a bit pointedly, and recieved nods of agreement that Light hoped were genuine.

 

   They sighed, glancing around, already losing their focus as the women started thinking of exactly how many visitors there were, how they knew Sans, why they'd moved. The whole nine yards. And, admittedly, they too were curious. Light imagined they were probably just old friends stopping by to see the town before they headed on their way again.

   It felt like hardly a minute had passed when they felt a hand pat their shoulder. It jolted them from their thoughts, and they realized that Grillby was back. They didn't need him to say anything to know it was getting close to closing time, and they scurried back towards the kitchen so they could start cleaning up for the night. And among their chores, the thoughts of newcomers in town faded, overlapped by just how many dishes they had piled up.... curse their laziness.

.

.

.

   It'd been a month or two since the ladies in the restaurant had brought up Sans' new house-mates. At first Light had been sure they were temporary, but the assumptions of them staying seemed to be true. Light had heard just about every update on them directly from the ladies, anytime Grillby gave them the chance to ask.

   Apparently it was five new skeleton monsters, all of them staying with Sans. Or, Crop. They were calling him Crop now, something about skeleton naming conventions. Four of them were adult guys, and from what Light had been told, they were a bit imposing. The fifth, though? A babybones. From what they'd heard, it was a little boy that the four adults had showed up with. That kid seemed to be their pride and joy, and maybe even what brought them to stay with Crop.

   Light had seen a few of them out in town a few times, just in passing. The one with the hole in his skull was the first one they'd spotted out in the wild, helping Crop with errands. Then there was the one with the dark magic leaking from his sockets. His soul being on display was a bold choice, but Light hadn't had much time to oogle him, as he'd just been walking out of the market as Light was walking in.

   They heard a rumor about the one that always seemed serious, a red scar under one of his sockets, but Light hadn't had the opportunity to spot him yet, and they'd seen the babybones across the street once, tucked in the arms of the one who always seemed to wear a hood.

   Light really didn't like to pry into people's private lives, but there was just so much talk swirling around that it was hard to not get at least a hint of new news daily. Like, when they were shopping for a new shirt (they ripped their old one trying to climb up a tree and grab a piece of their laundry that had escaped the drying rack) they heard the shop-owner talking about how adorable the new little family in town was to the person in-line before them. When they were hanging out with some pals, their buddy said the hooded one had fixed his janky-ass cash register in just a few minutes. That thing had been broken longer than Light was in-town! And just lately they'd heard that Gerson was giving all of them high-praises.

   Of course, it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. No one knew where they came from, and they didn't tell either. Some people were weary, monsters with injuries like those? With the tired looks on their faces when they weren't really thinking about it? Monsters like that surely spelled trouble... but Light wasn't there to judge. They felt like an outside observer just piecing things together haphazardly as new information was thrown their way.

   ...and then they broke their lights.

   Okay, in their defense it wasn't actually the lights themselves. Something in the wiring had fucked up while they were at work, and they came back to a pitch-black farmhouse and a shitty housemate who'd scared the hell out of them by jumping out from under the table as they passed by.

  

   N, their awful (or Funny, as she'd put it) housemate had apparently gotten back from her own work and found the house like that, and she'd changed out all the lightbulbs before sunset. But, they didn't keep matches. Or lanterns, really. And she didn't know where to find the flashlight or her phone in the pitch black, so she'd decided waiting in the dark for her walking-torch of a friend to return was the best plan.

   And, apparently, N had somewhere to be in the morning, but she'd already phoned in an electrician to come figure out where things had gone wrong and fix it by the time Light was awake to find the note she'd left about it. Joyous day, Light loved those electricians. Not.

.

   One dreamless sleep and a tired morning. Light was in the kitchen, dressed in their work uniform and tiredly shoving a piece of fresh cantaloupe in their mouth, when their door knocker banged against the wood of the front door.

   Weird, the electricians always dragged their feet. One glance at their phone revealed that this one was only a few minutes behind schedule.

   They wandered to the door, gulping down their hasty breakfast before swinging the door open, and-

   That was not a big city electrician. That was, in fact, the new guy in town with the hood that fixed Gerson's, like, entire house. Wow. Light wasn't expecting him, N could've at least warned them!

   "Oh, good morning!" They unwittingly shifted gears, turning up their energy levels a bit, as to be welcoming. "I'm guessing my friend N called you about our electricity issue?" They questioned, holding the door open.

   It felt like they towered over the skeleton. They couldn't see his eyelights from under his hood, but he seemed tired and slouched. Unenthused to be here at the very least, and at the most he seemed deeply offended by having to stand on Light's rickety old porch. His vibe check was not passing.

   "Mm, yeah. Something about the wiring." He confirmed, seemingly begrudgingly. His voice was a little... quiet? That could've just been Light, though. They were used to the loud hollers of country-folk these days.

   Light sighed in exasperation. "Yep! I'm sure she probably told you all about it, but the entire lighting set-up went dark yesterday while we were both at work." They agreed, stepping to move out of the entrance to their house, "Come on in, I'm sure you'll know better than either of us did."

   The guy slipped in past them with a slight hum of confirmation, and Light noticed the toolbox clutched in one of his hands.

   They trailed him after closing the door, and watched as he honed in on the nearest light-switch. Unsurprisingly he toggled it, clicking the switch on. Off. On. Off again.

   Something felt a bit surreal. Light was convinced this guy and the other folks Crop was hosting were something like a urban legend, or a celebrity. They'd never been so close to them, and maybe it was a bit silly of them that they'd thought the guys were so imposing. I mean, this guy was in their house, and in just a few minutes he reminded Light more of a wet cat than anything the rumors about him or his friends had conjured up.

   He seemed tired, and he did everything with this off-putting systematicness. He'd seemed fine with Light trailing him through the house, pointing out where the wiring went and connected and which switches did what. It'd just given them more of a chance to observe him.

  

   In hindsight that was a little weird, but Light wasn't exactly the most normal monster in the world, so whatever.

   But truly. This guy seemed small, and a bit thin compared to the others they'd seen from afar. He was ultra quiet, probably the quietest person in town, and even though Light never saw his eyelights, it constantly felt like they were the one being scrutinized, and not the other way around.

   And, just like that, the skeleton had hummed and begun unscrewing a lightswitch plate just outside of N's room. Light watched curiously as he peeled the old cover back from the switch, and he poked at something with a nod to himself.

   "The wires here are frayed, messed up the circuit." He voiced, and his words made Light jump a bit. The only sound for at least 15 minutes had been their steps and the crackling of Light's flames.

   "Oh, seriously?" They asked meekly, seeing as he was already pulling some stuff out of his tool kit. Wires, it looked like. Maybe electrical tape too?

   "Yeah. Rat probably chewed through it." Was all he responded with, and Light was once again left in that silent gap as they watched him work. And he was skilled, that was for sure. Light had half expected him to dismiss them so he could fuck around for an hour to waste their time like the city electricians used to, but in about 5 minutes flat he had the wires attached, and in a few more minutes the cover was screwed back in place.

   A simple flick of the switch had the hall lights on in a split second. The shadow that fell on his skull darkened, but Light was too busy being impressed by his handiwork.

   "Holy shit, they don't even flicker anymore!" They said in mild amazement, missing as the skeleton packed his supplies back up and seemed already prepared to go.

   He led the charge back to the door, double-checking each light as they went, but they all worked better than ever now.

  

   "Here, your pay!" Light suddenly broke their silence, digging into their pocket before producing a roll of cash that N had left behind. "Thank you for the help, man." They added, though they swallowed their need to offer him a cup of coffee or a quick snack. It seemed to them he wasn't compelled by the need for a classic southern-farewell.

   He plucked the cash from theur hand, slipping it into a pocket on just jacket with a mumbled 'No problem.' before he was already on his way back out the door.

   Thirty minutes or so, that was really all it had taken. He was like a spectre, in and out in near complete silence. Not abrasive, but not friendly... cautious? Yeah. In hindsight he did seem cautious.

   Light decided in that moment that they'd be asking Grillby to give that man and his friends a discount the next time they stopped in.

.

.

.

   They were really moving into Gerson's old farm. Light hadn't seen that one coming in the slightest, but when Dani had driven past them with a load of lumber in her truck, with another few following her, Light had realized they were heavily out of the loop.

   Luckily for them, their boss knew what was going on already, and he was already telling them before they got two steps in the door with the latest crate of their supplies.

   "A delivery?" Light questioned the fire monster as he heated the crate out of Light's grasp. Light was young and spry, but Grillby was miraculously strong.

   They eyed him curiously, eyes skimming his flames, listening to the crackling pops that danced away from him. Was he really...?

   "Gerson's old place? Those guys really moved in there?" They questioned, though they knew that Grillby wasn't one for gossip. He was dead serious when he said he needed them to run an order out to the place.

   Apparently, Ellie had insisted Grillby contribute to their little gathering, celebrating the new neighbors and helping them settle in for good. Of course, he'd obliged, but he didn't want to leave the restaurant unattended for too long. So, Light would be taking the orders that way instead.

   "Alright, okay!" They laughed a bit as Grillby nudged them using the crate in his arms. All the supplies were stacked out back, and it seemed all the food was ready in the kitchen.

   Light gathered the food carefully, stacking it securely in their passenger's seat as Grillby kept moving in and out of the building, each time with another load of supplies.

   And then they were off. With only a slight detour past their own place, they made it no problem to the place they were meant to be.

   ...Luckily, the crowd wasn't big, and it wasn't hard to find a place to park on the driveway. Light could see a small group gathered in front of the building, and found that a few more were already on their way back to theur trucks. The Sun wasn't quite setting, but Light hoped they hadn't taken too long.

  

   Swinging out of the driver's side, they rounded to the passengers and gathered the food along their arms... having four sure did help them with the load.

   They kicked the door of their truck shut and moved as hurriedly as they could towards a familiar bunny monster. She and her partner were the only reason they were out here.

   "Food delivery, still warm!" Light called out when they got close enough that it felt appropriate. Only once a few faces had turned did they grin and continue, "Fresh from Grillby's, he sends his regards to our new neighbors!"

   One of the few of the group that was gathered was that skeleton with the magic leaking from his eyes. Light had, once, wondered whether they were tears but had since dismissed that idea. He always wore a wicked grin whenever they crossed paths.

   It was that skeleton and Ellie who approached them, breaking off from the little group who'd seemingly been helping out. Though, Light suspected by now that it might've become a social hour as the sun kept dipping lower.

   "Huh, today is just full of pleasant surprises," the skeleton voiced as he got within rang to stop and stand before Light, "And to think this is just in time for dinner. Now Horror won't have to cook!" He... seemed to be thinking aloud.

   Ellie came up beside him, smiling at Light, "Oh I was worried that stubborn monster wouldn't send anything at all!" She voiced, "Thank you, Light, for bringing all this up here." She was already moving forward, and Light let her scoop one of the covered plates off their arm.

   "It's no trouble at all. Least I can do to return the help is ferry some food to you hard-workers." They replied easily, though they didn't miss how the skeleton was looking at them now.

   I mean, he'd been looking before, but now Light felt that same weird feeling of being watched as they had at their house. A glance revealed that the skeleton had an eyebrow quirked at them.

   "Return the help?" He questioned idly.

   Oh, right, "Yeah! Your hooded friend was a big help to me a few weeks back. Fixed up my house's entire lighting circuit in a fraction of the time the city folks usually take." They said honestly, "But, based on what I've heard I'm probably not the first one to say that." They laughed a bit.

   The skeleton seemed to relax a little. When had he even tensed? Light hadn't noticed there was any tension in his form until his shoulders slumped a bit.

   "Ohhhh, right. Geez, Dust's met half this town and doesn't tell us anything." He mused. Light just tried to file away that the hooded one was Dust. "Well, speaking of Dust, he's probably already inside with the others." He said then, tilting his head towards Ellie, "You mind fielding the rest of these guys? Meet us back inside for dinner?"

   Ellie assured this guy that she could handle it and passed off the plate she'd taken to him.

   Light wasn't exactly informed on what was happening, but the skeleton just nodded for Light to follow him, and they did.

   They passed the last few folks catching up and cleaning in the lawn before climbing some steps onto a porch. Then the skeleton swung the door open, and Light slipped in behind him easily. It felt like any other delivery to any other residents of the town. Familiar and practiced, even though they'd never even gone past the drive on this old property.

   Inside the house was a bit barren, and pretty quiet, but that serenity only lasted for a few seconds before there was a call from the skeleton who led them inside.

   "Guess who brought back the grub?" He called, recieving various voices hissing the name 'Killer' in various levels of frustration to his calling.

   Light traveled into a separate area, a kitchen/dining room it seemed, following Killer with the meal, and they suddenly understood why they had so much.

   Sat and stood in the space were the other three skeletons who'd moved in, along with Crop, Straw, and Dani. It felt like a family-reunion of sorts. The skeletons all seemed to be leveling Killer with frustrated and exasperated looks as he sauntered inside and set his one plate on the table before him.

   "Killer, you gotta be more careful, Night was trying to get in a nap." Scolded one of them quietly, the one with the red scar under his eye.

   And stood in the doorway, Light spotted exactly what he was talking about. Killer moved quick to approach the hooded skeleton, Dust, and Light initially missed what was curled up in Dust's lap. No, not what. Who.

   There, tiredly blinking up towards the approaching Killer, was the babybones. He looked so comfy tucked in Dust's arms, and Light didn't envy him when Killer leaned and gently poked at one of his cheeks. "Sorry tiny boss, but we've got dinner to eat." He seemed to quietly amend as the little guy seemed unphased by the prodding.

   Light had been a bit shell-shocked. Maybe it was the kid being so cute? Maybe it was exhaustion from a long day? Most likely it was just that they felt like a bit of an intruder on a nice family meal. Like there was an invisible wall separating them from the fondness permeating in the room.

   Of course, that wasn't the case, and their arms were still keeping a few plates Wirth of food warm as they stood idly by. Watching as the room seemed to grow warmer at the presence of the babybones reawakening.

   "Oh, Light! Should've known Grillby wouldn't come himself." They were jolted out of their thoughts by Crop. He acknowledged them, which brought a lot of eyes directly onto them. They hoped their flames didn't burn brighter in embarrassment.

   They took a few steps inside, which brought them to just before an open seat at the table. "Great to see you again, Crop! You know how he is anymore about leaving the place un-manned." They voiced, trying to shake the gazes they could feel digging into them as they expertly laid the plates across the dinner table, sliding a few down the way with a practiced arm. "Besides, I would've been bummed if I hadn't gotten to greet the newly-moved in folks properly!"

   They stepped back once the food was all arranged, but finally took a moment to meet the stares watching them. Killer seemed unbothered, already moving to sit. Dust would've likely been uninterested, but Light could see how the little one was staring at them. And the other two? The big one was alright. He didn't seem to mind once Crop had greeted them, but the one with the scar still seemed weary.

   "Of course, I'll get out of your guys' hair so you can eat, but I heard people were bringing gifts, and my farm's not in season right now, so I had to improvise a bit." They said with a nervous grin as they popped open their inventory. A moment later, a simple black vase settled in their hands, and the room was lit up just a bit more.

   They hadn't expected the surprised hum of surprise from one of the skeletons.

   "Are those flowers, but on fire?" He asked, and Light caught that it was the one with the scar. They hoped that meant they could woo him a bit and make things less awkward.

   "Basically!" The agreed. "Flame flowers, they're my speciality item I grow in my garden. They'll keep burning as long as you leave them in the sun and don't water them." They explained, before holding the little bundle of them out above the table. "They're non-flammable and the flames don't get hotter than an average spring day. The vase is stone too, better for them to last longer." They almost got lost in a rant about how exactly the plant worked, but reigned it in as they realized just how long they'd been talking.

   "Mm, they seem pretty neat. Thank you." Came the voice of the one with the hole in his skull. "Would ya mind setting them on the counter there?" He gestured towards the counter behind them, and as they turned to place them, they realized Dani had begun talking about something. Maybe them, even? But they'd overstayed their welcome.

   Dani or Ellie would get the plants back to them to get back to Grillby's, they knew that much.

   They passed Ellie on their way out, only exchanging quick pleasantries before they split ways. The lawn was dark now, vacant besides Light's glow against the grass abd trees, abd their truck was the last one, parked a few paces from Crop and Dani's trucks.

   They stopped by the restaurant to check in on Grillby, but he dismissed them for the night, so they simply went home. But, those guys... something about them was oddly familiar. Or, oddly unfamiliar? They couldn't place it, not with words, but all that really mattered was that they seemed to really have found a home here, just like Light had.

   The town, with its many faults and troubles, seemed to attract the strangest people to call it home. That's what it was meant for though, right? This town looked out for its own. Maybe that was why it felt so right to have those five skeletons now living up on that previously vacant plot after so long.