#my first tip is to draw it like a paper puppet if you've ever made those

[icaruskeyartist]

I wrote this last night but I still kinda want these to have their own posts. No writings tonight; my head aches from irl stress.

@pillowspace

It's... after.

You had funny little names for the loops before, jokes for yourself to deal with the ever increasing dread that you would never figure out the trick to get out of them. You don't name this one. The creeping dread you feel when you remember is enough.

You almost don't go that first day. You love them, you know them, you know that couldn't be their default, and it's only the bright, fragmented memories of that first meeting that drags you out of bed and getting there nearly an hour late. No one really cares that you're late. You're a warm body, and that's all Fazbear Entertainment cares about.

It's easier when the kids are around and awake. You don't think Sun notices you avoiding them, avoiding the dark spaces where he might change. Avoiding those long, delicate, powerful fingers that make your throat close up without ever touching you. Despite the lack of bruises you're driven to wear turtlenecks, close fitting layers that can't be grabbed. You think about trying to get in shape but what's the point? It'll just reset.

You'll just reset.

He had warned you, you reason with yourself during naptime. You're hiding behind the security desk. It's still early, Moon is still allowed to come out if you're there, and he's checking the children. You are pretending to be on your phone, but you are uncomfortably aware of where he is at all times. But you must've dozed off, just for a moment, because there's a sudden tug on your hat as it catches on your hair. You open your eyes and recoil.

They're not supposed to be able to reach you back here.

Moon doesn't know how to react when you move out of pure panic, shoving away from the security desk, the chair catching on some phantom nothingness so it falls over backwards and none too gently tips you out. You crawl back, against the wall, staring at Moon as your heart beats rabbit fast, and it's panic, panic, panic, cold and hot and you need to run.

"It was a joke," Moon says, and he puts down your hat and backs away, hands up. Long, delicate fingers, made for storytelling and puppets and changing soiled clothes.

Your throat hurts. You close your eyes and cover your face with your hands, willing the panic to go away.

---

It's after.

You're sitting in your bedroom. The curtains and blinds are open, letting sunlight pour over you and the nest you've created of blankets and pillows in the middle of your bed. There's mugs on the nightstand with your phone and a small day by day paper calendar, the days past torn and crumpled and scattered on the floor. You don't have your hearing aid in. You've barely left bed since the loops broke.

Sun enters, and if you were yourself, you might've laughed. He looked silly, wearing an oversized shirt with a photorealistic kitten on it and his striped jester pants. He's carrying a new mug, and you can smell the tea, chamomile and cinnamon maybe. He offers it to you and you take it mechanically, sipping and scalding your lips and tongue. You feel the heat sliding into your belly, but there's no taste.

Sun sits next to you, the bed shifting, gravity drawing you into them. They weren't built for this world, of human sized rooms and doors, and already there were little scrapes and scars in the ceilings and trim from Sun's rays when he would move without thinking. It wasn't the daycare anymore, and he looked as out of place here as you had felt over and over again.

It's hard not to flinch when he reaches out to you, and you can see it hurt him, hand held midair before it lowers to his lap to fidget. You ought to comfort him, but it's hard to move. Like you're swimming through molasses.

We're sorry. Sun is signing. The one good thing about the loops was you'd finally learned more sign language beyond fingerspelling or hello. Of course they were fluent. We've been remembering and the times we, Moon...

You don't let him say it. You grab at his hands, squeezing them, movements clumsy as you stretch and overexert yourself. You're off balance, painfully stretched, but they catch you, adjust you until you're in their lap, a hand between your shoulder blades, the other held in your own small hands against your chest.

His fingers rest mere inches from your throat and there's still a dull panic, somewhere deep, deep down when you still felt things beyond exhaustion and whatever it'd been driving you forward. But mostly there's comfort. These hands that'd taken care of children, that'd killed you who knows how many times... now they held you so gently, bringing you close to their chest where you can listen to the quiet hum of their mechanics, closing your eyes as fingers curl around your hands.

The sun shines through the window and Sun cradles you in his arms and you know you're safe, you know those hands will protect you until you come back to them.

You'll come back to them. You will.

[pinkpuffballdude]

me before rigging a vtuber: aw man $200? that's probably reasonable but I don't have that kind of money :(

me, now having drawn and rigged the Same Fucking Model three times: two hundred dollars is not enough. you should be charging five thousand per parameter.