idk man the thing that sucks about not being really pretty is that no matter what you tell yourself and what your friends might say, you sort of always know that you’re just not. and i’m not talking about being stubborn and fishing for compliments, it’s just knowing that you’re not conventionally attractive, that people on the street won’t double-take when you pass by them, that people won’t be flustered trying to talk to you. and i know looks aren’t everything but damn it sure feels like it when you aren’t absolutely gorgeous
Buzzwole the ultra beast from Pokemon is designed after a mosquito. It’s female mosquitoes that are larger, make a buzzing sound, and seek out humans. Male mosquitoes are small, silent, and since they have no need for blood they typically avoid humans.
Taking that into account one can assume that the giant muscle bug beast is a female.
Commissioned this AMAZING W.D. Gaster at ECCC from the insanely talented @sdillonportfolio! LOOK AT HOW COOL THIS IS!
I was so glad to hear that it was fun to draw when all I gave him to run with was, “I’d like to commission an ink of W.D. Gaster.” He even got a picture of me in my Gaster cosplay with the finished commission and mentioned that he was going to put it up on his Instagram! It was only after doing my best Vanna White impression as Gaster and leaving Artist’s Alley that I remembered I don’t have an Instagram… Oops! Oh well!
Gonna frame and put up this awesome piece of artwork and admire Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Goopy now that I’ve shared him here too!
I loved the story where Plumette is pregnant, could we have a follow up story where Lumiere sees the baby for the first time? Please?
oh my god, what a good prompt
he is so afraid he is going to lose her. his hands hurt from wringing them, from pinching out every finger and running thumbs against his palms as he listens to her scream. I thought children came into the world tenderly, tenderly, he thinks, not bathed in blood and wet and screaming and Plumette
Another scream from her. Cogsworth has to put a hand on his arm to keep Lumiere from throwing himself into the room. Mrs. Potts and Belle laid out strict orders: no coming in, no pacing just inside the door, you’ll worry her by being worried, she knows you’re just outside but she doesn’t need you now.
I need her, he tells Cogsworth. I need her safe.
A maid runs by again—the last of many in just this hour—grabbing herbs, cloths, rags, Lumiere can’t keep a hold of how many things they need to yank his wife open and pull out a screaming ball of life. I knew being human was messy, he tells Cogsworth. I did not know it could make me so afraid.
Adam comes by and stands, useless, hoping his very presence can help calm his friend down. Lumiere’s hair is on end from waiting, from hoping—oh, god, mon dieu, mon ange, it is so silent now, they have killed Plumette, his dearest has gone silent at last.
A tiny, tiny cry. Oh, mon dieu, he calls out, unaware he looks mad, the last cry of her sweet, sweet life—Plumette, cherie, cherie
Adam is holding his arm, smiling, why are they smiling, Cogsworth is beaming and relaxed his grip. What is there to smile at, when Plumette is dead and life is dead and the palace has gone silent too.
“She’s alive,” Adam whispers. “Lumiere, she’s alive.”
Sacre bleau. Of all the suns—
Mrs. Potts and Belle can’t hold the door shut; he flies through it so fast and doesn’t hear Adam’s “ouch” as the prince follows and touches the molten handle of the door. Lumiere is at her bed in a moment, diving through the feathers that ripped through the mattresses and searching her out amid the candlelight. When did it get so dark? When did they bring out the candles? Lumiere has spent so long thinking of Plumette he did not realize the sun had set. He hides his hands—he always expects them to be on fire, now, he doesn’t dare touch or burn her—and stares into her sweet, sweet face, streaked with sweat but so alive. Oh, ma cherie, she is so alive, he whispers, talking to nothing.
“Yes,” says Plumette, whispering back, “she is so alive. Look, mon amour,” and holds out something for his still-red hands.
Lumiere has known what it is like for all time to stop and your heart to stop beating, but he never knew it could be exquisite. Last time, it was like a dulling of death, this time—so much life—
“I cannot speak,” he whispers, “She is—she is magnifique. She is light.”
“She does seem to glow,” and Plumette’s laugh is low and steady and exhausted and everything he ever wanted. “Let’s hope she has your fiery spirit.”
Her dusty skin—so small, so soft, so tender. Lumiere has seen magic but never a wonder such as this. Such a tiny thing, smaller than he has ever been, glowing from some secret joy.
“I heard the first cry of her life,” he whispers. “I heard her cry.”
“She is sweet, so sweet, I love her so,” says Plumette, and smiles against her feather pillows, her curls damp against her head.
The child curls her fingers around Lumiere’s hands, soothing the bruises he left. He touches her hands with his, his fingers dancing on her own.
“I think I’ve come alive for the third time of my life,” he whispers, and Plumette smiles. He curls himself in the bed beside her, and she leans against his arms, her own hands touching first him, then the child, a little laughter waltzing between them as the baby sneezes and snores. Plumette fall asleep on his shoulder; Lumiere sleeps too, his lips still pressed to her forehead, his arms still holding the child.
Mrs. Potts shuts the door and damps the candles. “They have a lifetime of light ahead of them,” she says. “Let’s give them a little dark for now.”