#because I miss drawing robots | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tojisun · 4 months

Note

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8tQfwXt/

this with biker!simon 🤭 the way he just melts omg

OH MY GOD I YELLED

nono fr omg the way he melted as soon as he heard it and the way he literally looks like hes about to lose his mind on the highway??? SCREAMING

!! suggestive - minors dni; sexting ig // biker!simon mlist

thinking about how this isn’t really something you’d usually send—you’re so used to his friends snooping on his phone so of course you two have to be careful. discreet.

but.

it’s been a while since you two have done anything more than rushed make out kisses. even the last time you two tried to squeeze a quickie, it was still, somehow, interrupted by your conflicting schedules.

you’ve tried to hold onto your patience. tried holding back even when all you wanted to do was jump simon because there he always is, beautiful and hot and just overall so goddamn attractive, it should be illegal to be that good looking.

but it’s been a while now. and you’ve missed him dearly.

it didn’t help that his last meet was all over social media, getting mixed into edits because of fucking course he is a tiktok edit now. you really can’t blame anyone—you were there, after all.

you’ve seen, first hand, the way he unveiled his new shop project before pairing up with that guy who you all still call konig. god knows what his name is but honestly you’re not even curious anymore. not when simon stole the goddamn show. again.

then the asshole had the audacity to point at you, black leather gloves stark against all the flashing cameras, and you watched as he made a little fucking heart with his hands. if the cameras weren’t going ham on simon then, they sure were after that little flirty stunt.

you felt yourself be engulfed in flames so, yeah. you really can’t blame anyone for sharing every pictures and videos they have of simon that day all over the internet.

still, somehow, you want to monopolize him. possess him.

and, if you’re not blaming anyone for sharing every sliver of simon’s meet, well, you hope no one can also blame you for what you’re about to do.

simon grunts as he finishes rounding a corner and begins easing into the highway. he rights himself up and blazes past the straggling sedans to get into the thick stretch of the road.

it’s not too windy today but dusk is breaking out and simon’s just glad he’s finally en route to your place. it’s been a long day and gods he’s missed you.

he gets the notification a few minutes in.

“hey, baby,” your message starts. “i missed you.” there’s a pause. “i’m wearing that lingerie you’ve always liked, you know the blue little thing? i forgot how lace feels since it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

simon’s breath is suspended in the pathway through his lungs, his eyes going wide as your words draw on. not even siri’s robotic voice can shake away simon’s thoughts—the vivid imagination of coming home to see you in that lace bralette and panties and—he grips the hand clutch tighter—the matching lace choker it came with.

fuck-

“might start without you, lover boy. so drive home—to me—safe, okay? see you soon, baby. love you.”

fuuuck.

simon books it home.

AAAAHHHH SCREAMINNN no bc this is me w simon!!

#anon #biker!simon #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley #female reader #ask #suns

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lovebugism · 5 months

Note

Heyo!

Can you pretty please with sugar on top do something with Steve and shy!reader and then passing notes?

Feel free to skip if you want, and thank you in advance! Your writing skills are so good!

ty angel! hope you like it xoxo — after a scolding from keith for talking to you on the job, steve takes matters into his own hands (shy!fem!r, fluff, established relationship, 1.3k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

Grieving, grieving, grieving.

Steve goes into his fourth hour on the clock mourning the lack of you. You’re sitting just beside him, click-clacking away at the chunky computer, but he misses you anyway. He hasn’t said a word to you in an hour. He’s pretty sure it has to be a record by now, especially with you close enough to kiss.

Keith got mad at the two of you for ‘fonduing on the job.’ Whatever that means. Now, the two of you are silent and unsure of what to do with yourselves. This job was only tolerable because he could spend eight hours with you. What’s he supposed to do now? Work?

“Have a good day,” he says, a bit robotically but with a smile, as he hands a customer their bag of movies. Killer Klowns, Poltergeist, and Basketcase — for what must be a horror movie marathon for a holiday season cleanse.

The customer service grin washes away the second the door dings open and shut again. The store is quiet and mostly empty, eerily so without you to fill the void.

A funny joke pops into his head then, and his first instinct is to tell you about it — just to see you smile ‘cause he knows you’ll laugh even if it’s not funny. He looks over his shoulder to make sure Keith isn’t looking, then finds the weirdo watching him like a hawk, only his beady eyes visible over the aisle of tapes.

Steve cowers beneath the ice-cold glare and turns away again. He reaches for a sticky note instead, bright yellow and with the Family Video logo printed in green at the top. The jotting of his pen against the pad fills the mostly silent store.

He yawns and fakes a stretch to stick the thing on the counter next to you.

You don’t notice it at first — because inventory has drained your awareness so much that it’s all you can focus on — but you’re smiling the second you do. It schlicks when you un-stick it from the laminate to find a sloppy drawing of a cartoon pig.

“Missing you pig time” is written in something close to chicken scratch just beside it.

You get all giddy, like a schoolgirl in the back of the classroom getting a note from their crush. Being with Steve feels exactly like that, all the time. On the legal pad next to you, you write a cheesy pun of your own — a plump hippo in a neater cursive that reads “I hippopota-miss you.”

You rip it from the notebook slowly and with a palm spread flat to avoid making too much noise. You crumble it up to pretend like it’s trash, then intentionally miss the bin beside you. The thing bounces by Steve’s sneakers before he bends down to pick it up with a golden hand.

He smooths out the paper as best he can on the counter. Then leans on his elbow and props his scruffy chin in his palm, using his fingers to hide the beam on his face. With his free hand, he draws you a hedgehog adjacent to the cartoonish animal you’d created — only he doesn’t really remember what a hedgehog looks like, so it’s more of a circle with spikes.

“Could really use a hedge-hug right now,” he writes.

He crushes the paper between his palms and tosses it into your lap.

You shoot him a glare, accompanied with a small smile, but he looks away too quickly to see it.

You begin to beam as your eyes dart over the crumbled paper, an expression so wide Steve can see it in his own head. He’s grieved to miss it, but he doesn’t want Keith to see him and think he’s distracted again. Besides, he knows if he looks at you too long, he’ll have no choice but to kiss you stupid.

Now all you are is unkissed and grieving, more so than you were just five minutes ago. You grow empty with the feeling. It makes the spark of bravery and sudden longing burn brighter behind your ribcage.

You rise from your squeaking swivel chair and walk the very short distance to Steve. Three steps. Five, maybe. Six at the very most. You don’t count them, too overwhelmed by your love for the boy who doesn’t see you coming.

You wrap him up in your arms, wedging yourself between him and the countertop. Your arms clasp behind his lower back as your cheek squishes into his sternum. He smells like home, cologne, and something warmer.

Steve tenses beneath your embrace. Not because he doesn’t welcome it, but because you’re not usually so affectionate this way. It took you months to kiss him first — longer to stop asking to kiss him before you did it.

And you’re a delicate little thing, too. You hate getting in trouble. Hate the thought that someone, somewhere in the world, was at some point unhappy with you. And even though you don’t particularly care for your boss, you’d think you’d probably cry if Keith ever scolded you.

Steve knows this, too. So he doesn’t give in to you so easily.

“Whatcha doing?” he croons lowly to you.

“Give you a hedge-hug,” you mumble into his chest.

He scoffs a faint laugh that fans across your forehead. “You’ll get in trouble,” he teases in a gentle whisper, slowly melting into your embrace. His wide hands smooth warm along your spine. He doesn’t press you anything closer with his touch, just cradles you softly against him.

“Don’t care. I just miss you.”

“Hippopota-miss me?” he jokes and noses into your hair. You smell like home, in both the figurative and literal sense of the word. Equal parts because you spent the night at his place and because your scent strikes something short of nostalgia inside his chest.

You laugh. He can feel the golden sound of it in his ribcage. “Pig time,” you answer.

“How’d you like that one, huh?” he asks, muffled against you.

“It was genius.”

“Right!” he chuckles. “Thought of it outta nowhere and had to tell someone about it.”

Your head shakes against him as a grin blossoms on your lips. He can’t see it from this angle, but he can feel it — in the way your cheek squishes harder against his sternum. “Your brain is so amusing, you know that?”

Steve, knowing that would be an insult coming from Robin, decides to take it as a compliment from you. He presses his petaled mouth to your forehead and lingers there for several moments. “Thank you,” he murmurs after.

The Robin in question turns out to be his savior, neither intentionally nor ungrudgingly.

She’s stacking VHS tapes on the shelves with Keith, both of them crouched to restock the bottom rows. She rises first, bones creaking in protest. “God, I feel like an eighty-year-old, man,” she groans and stretches her aching knees.

Back to full height again, she sees the two of you wrapped in an embrace behind the counter. She scoffs and rolls her eyes. Not because she’s jealous — she’s definitely not jealous — but because the two of you couldn’t last a whole hour not talking. It’s deplorable.

But despite her internalized complaints, she refuses to let Keith catch you fonduing a second time. Right before he stands beside her, she swipes a hand over the top row of tapes. Adventure movies titled L through M tumbled to the ground, a few of them knocking the older boy on his mulleted head.

“Ow!” he winces, nasally and whiny. He cradles the top of his deep brown, only slightly greasy hair and stares daggers at the girl above him. “What the heck was that for?”

Robin shoots him a shaking smile, freckled face blotched pink. “Sorry,” she lilts, voice trembling. “Spasm.”

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #stranger things #stranger things imagine #steve harrington imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #st drabbles #stevie drabble #event: bug turns one

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faeriekit · 2 months

Text

Health and Hybrids (XXI)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Wonder Woman! Robin! Impulse! Danny! Dick drawings! Who says that occupational therapy and learning a second language can't be fun?

Trigger warnings for this story: body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) | my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

EXTRA TW for: vomiting, panic attacks (this chapter only)

Danny can hold a spoon now. He is unstoppable.

So, when the lady isn’t there to feed him dinner (more mush), one of the not-the-lady nurses gives Danny a tray, and lays a mat over his lap so that he can eat without completely messing up his bedsheets.

Eat he does. Slowly. Maybe a little messily, and it’s kind of embarrassing to have to admit to himself that food definitely spills out of his mouth and onto his lap. The doctor/nurse/medical person, whoever they are, turns on the television, and Danny doesn’t try to ask for the remote. The television only gets something like ten channels, and none of them are cartoons at lunch hour.

So. News it is.

Most of the news follows the same cycle; the weather, sports teams Danny can now recognize the colors of, traffic cameras, and events with long, scrolling text to detail the happenings onscreen. There’s something about dogs? That’s fun. The scientist/nurse/tech, whoever they are, says something in the tone of Aaw, aren’t they cute? as puppies run about and wrestle on screen.

Danny kind of misses Cujo. He picks at his bedsheet, and doesn’t say anything.

The dog program transitions away— there’s a bright banner in its place. Danny’s seen it before: it’s something to the equivalent of Breaking News. It’s usually weather, or crime, or something.

Um. But it’s not that. Danny’s spoon drops, because a ROBOT LADY lights up the screen with a glistening silver suit, not unlike the Ecto-Skeleton his parents used to keep in the basement. Or, well…this one might be more streamlined?

Danny shifts. He can’t help. He’s here, in the hospital. Or. Uh. The space…hospital. His body is very broken.

But there’s a robot lady wrecking a town on Earth.

And Danny can fly.

…Could fly. Could have flown. If he was. Well.

Danny’s not well, and his body aches and his hands don’t work and his legs work even less, but there’s people out there who need help. People who are getting shot at with rays and Danny can fight them, and humans can’t. Danny can help. He—

His core throbs. Danny chokes. He pulls at his chest, trying to find some kind of purchase on his medical gown to tug himself—up?? Out?? He can’t fly right now, but maybe—?

“Whoah, whoah, whoah, abide, abide.”

Danny grits his teeth. “Look!” he snaps, and jams a finger at the television. “There’s—look! There’s a giant robot out there punching buildings!”

“Wacie,” the human protests, but at least turns up the volume so that Danny can see better. “Wacie, þær eart firas þær nou.”

What does that mean?!

Danny hasn’t lifted himself in forever. His legs don’t work, but his arms…might.

He presses his palms down to the mattress. He pushes.

There is a liberated fraction of a second where Danny’s whole weight is on his arms.

—And then he comes crashing back to reality, his elbows snapping back into place. His butt slams back onto the bed and the whole frame jitters.

Danny pants. His arms quake.

The medic completely barrels through Danny’s usually meticulously-kept personal bubble, trying to make sure Danny didn’t dislodge his IV or rip his ligaments and tendons or tear his muscles or. Something. Danny barely notices, barely cares, because someone else blasts onto the television screen in a red bathing suit and gold boots.

And suddenly, both the people on screen are fighting. It’s brilliant. It’s bloody—it’s physical, in the way that flesh and bone and metal must be. Danny’s never seen serious fighting like that before.

And the new woman flies.

Danny stares.

She flies. She fights. She wins—narrowly dodging or displacing lasers with something shiny on her arms, and getting long hair singed in the process. In the end, the robot is tethered down with some kind of shiny metal rope, screaming and kicking all the way.

…Danny barely remembers to choke in air. That's so cool.

The medical person says something reassuring, but Danny’s too tired to listen. He watches this new woman take her applause, floating down on nothing but air to meet the reporter and answer questions. She looks poised. Confident. People clap. People shout things out. People smile. People cheer.

…No one is screaming. No one is running.

There are no ghost hunters in the crowd.

Danny’s exhale is manual. So is his inhale. His heart monitors are making all sorts of funky pictures most likely, but that’s not his business—he watches a woman in armor who flies take off into the sky, free to come and go as she pleases.

It…it hurts. It’s so beautiful and so peaceful and gentle and it hurts so much.

His eyes well up with tears. Why did she get this? This…niceness? Everyone had hated him when he'd tried to help—the teachers, Vlad, the town, his parents. They’d hated him! All he ever wanted to do was help like she did!

What made him so different?! Why was it Danny who got hunted down and shot at? Why was it Danny who got kidnapped and taken hostage?!

Tears burn his eyes like fire. It’s got to be the salt. Danny’s strangled whine turns into a choked off sob before he can catch it. His hand goes to his mouth, but he can’t stifle the noise.

He doesn’t want to. He wants to cry. He thinks he deserves it.

The tears come until he is sobbing, crying, wailing—because WHY WHY WHY was it so easy to hurt him?! WHY DID THEY HURT HIM, WHY DID MOM HURT HIM, HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!

A towel appears in his hand. They’re so nice to him here. So much nicer than when Mom and Dad had—

Danny’s cries are as much screams as they are anything else.

There are hands on his shoulder. On his back. Rubbing. Danny wants to shove them off but the lady isn’t here, which means that it’s one of the staff-members who isn’t supposed to touch him. They’re not supposed to touch him in case Danny hurts them but one of them gave Danny a clean towel to scream into and is rubbing his back because he’s crying.

They’re trying to be so nice and gentle but EVERYONE JUST WANTS TO HURT HIM.

They’re smart, though. They notice before Danny does, and have a bucket ready by the time heaving sobs turn into outright vomiting.

At least the mush mostly makes it into the bucket.

…So.

Having a breakdown…sucks.

Danny has to carefully brush his teeth with an extra-soft bristle brush and rinse out his mouth before he gets more water.

Someone is being very nice. There’s artificial fruit punch flavoring in his drink. He wants to feel grateful but he mostly feels dead.

…His eyes slide listlessly across the room. Ha. Dead.

Danny is horizontal and wrung dry and too tired to do anything but pant by the time the lady comes back to his room. She’s in quicker than usual—her gown is sort of sloppy, hair sticking out of her hair net, and she’s still looping her mask around her ear.

She gets down on her knees beside his bed. She asks him if he’s alright.

Danny’s not alright. He isn’t sure he’s been alright in…ages. Ages and ages. Before he was trapped and tied down. Before he was hated. Reviled.

…Before he was Phantom, maybe; before Danny Fenton had died a shocking, senseless death.

Tears try to wring themselves out of his aching eyeballs, but he’s too dry-eyed to cry; the lady make sad, wet eyes for him, and that’s probably enough between the two of them. Danny’s misery is a vast, gaping void, and all he has to show for it is the shovel he’s been digging through all this shit with for the last few years.

The lady brings her hands closer to his hairline, curled fingers hovering in the air. Her word’s don’t mean anything to him, but the gesture is clear: May I?

“…Mm,” Danny agrees. His eyes fall closed when she gently scratches at his scalp with her fingers.

No one’s touched him gently, on purpose, in…ages. When he was little, Dad used to pop him between him and Mom in bed. Mom would brush out Danny’s bangs with her fingers and Dad would hum. It was always something ill-fitting and silly. Guns N’ Roses. Led Zepplin. Santana. Sometimes Jazz would sit with them, crushing him until Dad had to pull him up and out of harm’s way.

In the quarantine lab, hurting him had just been part of the scientific process. What if there was some new discovery under his fat layer? On the other side of his ribs? Nestled between his alveoli?

Danny sniffles. He’s too dry to cry. He blinks invisible dust off of his eyelashes, and focuses on the weird lady who’s with him now.

Up close, when his eyes work, she looks nice. She has blue eyes, like him. Like Dad. They’re kinda…glowy, maybe? Sparkly? They remind him of ice in the Far Frozen—inhumanly brisk, and impossibly clean. She has eye crinkles where she smiles, tan skin making them more defined than their actual depth. Between her hair net and her medical mask, little wisps of black baby hairs shine through.

She pets him. She smiles. Danny isn’t sure why, but. Whatever. Jazz used to insist that human skin-to-skin contact was an essential need, so this is probably, like, also medical care.

Yeah. Danny squints. …Sure.

Whatever. It’s nice.

So Danny gets petted and it’s fine. He almost doesn’t notice the giant gauntlet under the paper sleeve of her gown, but then it’s right in his field of vision, and. Hey. Didn’t he see that on TV, like, an hour ago?

Danny stares.

He can’t actually tell if they’re gold under the pale blue color of the gown, but. The color is certainly some sort of unusually colored metal, cold to the touch even through the paper-like material of the gown.

…He doesn’t want to touch her, or let her know that he’s touching her. But. He brushes the back of his wrist against the bracelet, and it hums against the paper gown between it and his bare skin.

The lady blinks. She looks down at where they made contact, and asks him if he’s alright.

Danny looks away.

She knows she saw him reach out to her, though, so she takes her hand off of his hair (…hey…) and pulls back the sleeve on her gown. “Sest,” she offers. See?

It is the same kind of bracer he saw on TV. Up close he can see the designed etched into it—geometric lines stretching down from her fingers to her elbow, terminating in something structural. Not quite diamonds. Just…strong.

There’s a couple of very, very tiny letters down towards the bottom. His eyes strain when they try to make any sense out of them; they’re too small for him to actually focus on, which sucks.

She steps back, and pushes her sleeves down to show off her gold bracers. She lifts up the hem of her gown, revealing red boots that go waaaay up her thigh. They have the same gold metalwork as she does on the bracers.

Danny just saw those on the television. His eyes widen.

“You—“ he starts, and then remembers their difference in language. He points his hand at the television. “You fought? You were on TV?”

“Hwæt?”

“The TV?” Danny repeats. She doesn’t understand. Danny doesn’t know how to tell her what he means. “The…you were there?”

She looks at him to expand. Danny looks back at her.

…So they just stare at each other silently.

The door cracks open; the person who’d mediated Danny’s breakdown pokes their head in and says something. “Eower feoht wæs an þe box todæge.”

The lady blinks. Danny blinks. Wait. Did they just call the television the box?

“…Box?” Danny clarifies, and lifts a hand to shakily point at the television again.

The lady blinks, and grins. “Yea!” she returns, pumped up. She stands, to the powerful height she’d had on the television—excuse him, the box—and flexes her now-exposed arms to show off massive biceps.

Holy moly. Danny hasn’t seen any bigger biceps on his Dad.

She flexes one arm, the other, both—in front, and behind. If Danny had that much definition, he’d be showing off too! She leaps back impossibly far—and holy crap she can fly— to show off some mock punches at invisible enemies at speeds that Danny would be hard pressed to follow even with supernatural abilities.

He goggles.

She laughs at him, but she doesn’t sound mean—she sounds show-boating and silly, and teasing and playful, but not mean.

She’s like him. She’s not a ghost but she flies and she’s not human. She’s not human just like Danny. Just like that one green guy. Like the fast kid who visits him.

It’s such a relief. It’s so scary. Who are these people? Why are they healing him? Why are they keeping him?? Why do they have access to so many non-human people? What do they want him for? Is Danny supposed to fight like that?

He would fight. If he had to. He’s done it before.

If they make him fight, Danny’s pretty sure he’s going to fall apart like cheap glass.

The lady comes back when Danny goes quiet, her gloved fingers brushing up against his knuckles. The sensation is enough to bring Danny out of his…fog. Sometimes everything is so cloudy and vague. The pain medicine makes it go away, and the pain medicine brings it back.

Danny curls his hand into a shaking fist. He bumps her knuckles against his.

She makes a surprised noise. Danny feels her gently move his fingers, rearranging, moving where his thumb goes—

He huffs out a laugh. His fist wasn’t good enough to her standards. Her fist bump meets his in the middle with a smirk and a laugh, victory written all over her face.

#Whoever told you healing was linear was LYING TO YOU #my boy has PROBLEMS #'he's healing' Physically? Yes!#ngl I got through the whole chapter and wrapped up and started updating this post and THEN went. Wait. Is this a panic attack?#turns out! It is!#health and hybrids #dp x dc #danny phantom #dcu crossover #dpxdc #dcxdp #tw medical #tw gore #tw body horror

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sapphicseasapphire · 5 months

Note

ok, so, this has been bugging me for a bit today, but, what was Sky's reaction to when he first met Warriors? like there's got to be a strong emotion there given that Fi is also a sword spirit.

so yeah, I'm just wondering what you have planed for that.

(also great artwork it's absolutely stunning and looks really yummy)

((dont question it))

SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO RESPOND TO THIS, I HAD TO DRAW IT.

(Lore under the cut. Sorry, I have a lot to say about this haha)

Sky’s reaction when he first meets Warriors? Awe.

They find Wars last- or, well, they find his sword. The others are notably confused because they were looking for the hero. The temple that they were led to is completely empty except for a single sword atop a pedestal. Surely their lead was wrong- this can’t be it. Maybe this is the hero’s blade? And he will return to the temple? Or is this just the wrong spot entirely?

While the others are arguing with each other about what to do next, Sky steps up to the blade. It’s… a lot fancier than the ones that the heroes are accustomed to. Gems are inlaid into the guard, fabric is woven around the grip in a familiar pattern. There are diamonds that run down the blade and a piece of blue fabric is tied around the ring of the pommel. This level of decoration is not usually suited for a sword to be wielded in battle. In fact, the only sword that he’s known to be this beautiful and but also effective is currently strapped at his side. As Sky walks closer, he can see the blade glow unnaturally, and his voice echoes through the temple:

“It’s a Sword Spirit,” he’d say, reaching out to the blade but not touching. Not yet.

There’s a mix of emotions when Sky looks upon the blade. He’s relieved, for he had feared that Sword Spirits had been forgotten entirely. His heart aches at the cold weight of Fi at his side, empty and quiet where she used to be full of life. It’s good, he thinks, to see a new sword shine so bright. He’s a little afraid, he’d admit, since he has unsavory memories of a different Sword Spirit. Phantom hands at his shoulders, tongue at his ear, black blades arcing in the air.

Still, Sky can’t repress the way his heart leaps in excitement, a smile at his lips, even as his hand falters in the air. Another Sword Spirit, here, right in front of him. Another opportunity to make things right, to fix things. Oh, how he misses Fi.

“This is the hero we’re looking for.”

And the others would approach, their curiosity piqued by the reverent tone of Sky’s voice. (Note that Sky had just joined them about two-ish days ago? He was the second to last to meet the Chain, the last being Wars).

No one else has met a Sword Spirit before, not even Wild or Time (who, at this point, everyone thinks is a spirit), so they’re all a bit hesitant to accept Sky’s words at face value. Sky explains that he’s met Sword Spirits before, that the Master Sword herself is a spirit. Puzzle pieces click into place but they still need more convincing. They’ll believe that Sky’s correct: that the sword in the pedestal is indeed a Sword Spirit, but they don’t agree that it’s the hero that they’re looking for.

At least, not until the spirit bursts from his sword in a flash of white light, floating in the air as Fi had done so long ago. The eight heroes stand, eyes wide, before the glowing metallic figure. Sky could cry in at the joy he feels as the spirit utters his first words to them:

“Hello, Masters.”

. . .

• Sky inherently trusts everything that Wars says because he trusted Fi. Fi didn’t lie, she was always helpful, and she told him exactly what he needed to hear every single time, even if he didn’t like it. She was calculating and intelligent and Sky (well… Link) could not have survived on the Surface without her. He trusted her with his life. Sky has no reason to think that Wars would ever lie to him, either. Especially in the early days, when he’s more robotic and less human. And so, he trusts Wars to always be honest.

• This will totally definitely 100% not be a problem guys, I promise. Wars would never lie to Sky about something dangerous. And it totally would never result in Sky getting hurt. And it’s definitely not why Wars looks so upset in the sketches I did yesterday. You can trust me. I promise.

• Sky and Wars talk a lot about Fi. Wars is curious about her, since he’s met her before in his own era and doesn’t know what happened to her. So Sky would explain that she went to sleep after his first adventure, and Wars would stare at him blankly.

“Sword Spirits do not necessitate sleep, Master.”

“I-” Sky would look away, something terribly vulnerable in his eyes. His voice would be sad and quiet as he continued: “I know.”

• I know I’ve talked about this before, but Sky is the most knowledgeable about Wars. He understands. And so his interactions with Wars are a lot easier for the Sword Spirit than with the others. The others don’t like being called “Master.” They don’t like the matter-of-fact way he talks, how he calculates every sentence before speaking it, how he uses percentages and simulations to back up his arguments. (How he always wins arguments). And Sky doesn’t necessarily like these things either, but he’s always patient. Always gentle. He allows Wars to call him “Master” because he understands how much Wars needs it. When Wars goes off on tangents and describes every bit of data he can think of, Sky sits and listens and they talk and it’s just so easy. Sky is probably Wars’ favorite, just for that.

• The REASON that Sky is so supportive of Wars goes back to the one thing that drives him through literally everything in his life: guilt. He said goodbye to Fi much too soon. She was just starting to open up, to feel and express her emotions, when their time ran out. He never got to know the person she’d end up to be, and he’s not making that same mistake again with Warriors.

I think I’ve talked about this before? How when Sword Spirits are young, they talk robotically and don’t express themselves, but as they mature and are around more people, they kind of adopt their traits and become a more well rounded person? Fi, for example was only around for what? A few months? Ghirahim had thousands of years to develop. That’s the difference between “According to your social customs, I should provide you with my personal designation. Fi is the name I was given,” and “You may call me Ghirahim. In truth, I very much prefer to be indulged with my full title: Lord Ghirahim. But I'm not fussy."

Sky wants to see Wars grow in the way that he never got to see Fi. He wants to know Wars. Not just as a spirit, but as a friend.

#I answered questions #fanart #my art #chain as cryptids au #cac art #cryptid lore #sword spirit #sapphire rambles way too long #sorry for the lore dump #cryptid sky #cryptid warriors #the legend of zelda #links meet au

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