#Legend’s snippet

[milkyplier]

Wouldn’t it be. Just amazing if I could draw

[mothfables]

Without warning, Ravio scoops Legend up off the ground, one arm under his hips for support. The other boy squawks, flushing bright red as he stammers in surprise.

“You’re tired, honeybee. Pretend all you like, but I can see it in your eyes.” That shuts him up and he bites his lip, glancing away. Ravio looks around at the rest of them. “You all make yourselves at home. I’m going to put this one to bed.”

With that, he starts towards the stairs, Legend beginning to protest loudly as he goes. The other heroes muffle their laughter.

“I’m perfectly capable of going to bed by myself! You don’t need to carry me like I’m some helpless little —!”

“You’re going to bed, and you’re going to stay there, or I’ll have Sheerow watch you to make sure you don’t try anything.”

“You keep that bird away from me!”

[mintjuliee]

"Anytime you two need to talk, I'm here" (Turf Wars Issue #1, p. 58).

Ko-fi / Art Tag

[saiyanmazen]

Working on a little something to break through my writer's block. It's an early draft, so please excuse any mistakes.

Yes. It's smut for Legend - A Dragon Ball Tale. All based on Bulma catching Vegeta’s cape.

[aposemetric]

have you ever wanted to find out which Actually Gay™ anime character you are? have i got the diagnostic quiz for you! this quiz is long, varied, and has 26 different possible results. there is fashion. there is bloodshed. there is overly personal questions.

Let me, Dr. Gay Anime Bitches, assign you a gay anime bitch.

[coffeeshib]

arcane vi sketches

[amanitacurses]

Names

1 2 3

[lennsart]

Most of the wips I write these days can be summarized by "Legend gets hurt in fucked-up ways, and then he gets hugs" :)

(I'm fine shhh)

But I had this sitting in my drafts, and it's like the comfort part to a hurt/comfort, except I didn't like the hurt part, so posting this probably doesn't make sense, but.. I just wanted the boys to hug

Context + snippet under the cut !

Basically, Legend has been abducted for ransom (I think it was inspired by a whumptober prompt) and he didn't have a stellar time there. The rest of the chain rescues him, but they're worried he'll wake up confused at night, so they decide to watch over him. And they're supposed to take turn, but they all kinda end up sleeping next to him :)

Have this little Four POV that I quite like and feels like it can be posted without context :

Four expected to see two people in the room. One awake, that he would be about to replace, and the other asleep, that he would watch.

He hadn't expected three sleeping dudes.

He had to pause and go back to the hallway to laugh, muffling his chuckles in his sleeve. Of course Sky would have wanted to hug Legend and would have fallen asleep. Of course Hyrule would have let them, and promptly fallen asleep as well.

When he came back in and carefully closed behind him, he noticed with fondness that Legend, at least, looked perfectly content. He was sleeping on his back, Sky hugging his right arm, and he held Hyrule's hand with his left.

The traveler was mostly on the ground, head and arms on the mattress. Four winced ; that couldn't be comfortable.

Alright, he gave up (as if he hadn't as soon as he noticed them). He'd watch them three sleep, if only to gush about how cute they were tomorrow.

(He hoped Wind would bring his pictobox for his turn of watch in the morning.)

He got on Hyrule's side, and gently nudged him. This one hummed sleepily.

" - Shh, don't wake them up. " Four whispered. " Hop in.

- What...? " the traveler asked in confusion.

Four bit back a laugh at how asleep he sounded.

" - Get in the bed. " he ordered.

Hyrule may not really understand what was happening, but he didn't need to be told twice. He climbed in, wincing when he moved his legs, and abandoned Legend's hand to hug his waist, resting his head on his stomach.

The veteran softly hummed, but didn't fully wake up.

Four sat on one of the scarce empty spots of the bed, giggling to himself. He was happy that this watch had taken such a sweet turn ; he had expected to get lost in his own mind, trying to understand how they could have let one member of their group go through that. 

...

Instead, he had three sleepyheads cuddling, and he would trade for nothing in the world.

The last free spot on the mattress, above Hyrule and next to Lege, was probably too small for someone to sleep there.

...Well. He was small too, and mostly slept curled up anyway.

But, no ! He had decided he'd stay awake. No matter how comfortable those three looked, no matter how much he'd like to hug the vet, too, he would fulfill his mission.

Legend's hand opened and closed in his sleep, and he extended it further. Four blinked, and reached with his left hand. 

In a second, he was trapped, Legend satisfied with the hand he found and holding tight onto it.

...

Alright, that wouldn't be comfortable to stay sitting in this condition. Plus Legend looked like he wanted the smith to stay, and his goal had always been to watch for him, right ?

He curled up in the little free spot, his hand still in Legend’s, and definitely did not fall asleep in a matter of minutes.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Mad Maxxing - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Just your average Zaunite road trip...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

"You're smiling," Sevika says.

"I know."

"Why?"

"You'll know soon enough."

And, daring, he lays a hand on the headrest of her seat. Nothing else. Just his hand, and the flying kiss of her hair against his knuckles.  But he can feel the border between public and private dissolving like a chalk sketch in the rain.

The subterfuge, he senses, has become a game of chicken. Sooner or later, one of them will break. The thrill is in feeling the tension ratchet higher and higher.

In bracing, as a magician prepares for the big reveal, for the pure, unbridled shock of inevitability.

A burst of white arcs across the horizon. The flash, so close and bright, nearly blinds them. A boom, seconds later, cracks the darkness open, from north to south.

Cursing, Sevika slams the brakes. Tires screech. Silco, jolted forward, catches himself against the dash. The entourage, likewise, rumbles to a halt. The air thickens with the scent of burning rubber. Silco hears, through the open window, the crackle of radios, and the rumble of idling engines, and the thunder of boots as a phalanx of blackguards swarm from their cars.

A second flare goes up. The light bathes the flatlands in a scorching flash.

"What the hell," Sevika mutters, and thumps a fist against the steering column. 

The radio crackles. She snatches the receiver, and the distorted squawks resolve: the scouts on duty, reporting back from the perimeter. The soundscape beyond the vehicle is a chorus of shouts and loading guns. At the horizon, a dark line bleeds into unreal brightness. The night's torn open. And spilling forth, by inches, is a row of armored vehicles.

"Shit," Sevika breathes, and turns the ignition.

"What is it?" Silco demands.

She jerks the gearstick. "Eramis."

"Ah."

Silco smiles.

There's the diversion. Right on schedule.

Sevika relays orders into the radio. The entourage rolls headlong into the fray. Silco, no longer smiling, keeps low in the seat. He'd anticipated that Eramis would retaliate to his township's takeover. That he's responded, so soon, with a show of force bodes well.

It means the bastard's rattled, and ripe for the picking.

Sevika, in her element, steers the entourage with ruthless efficiency. Over the radio, she raps a rapidfire succession of orders to the scouts, and relays a series of tactical maneuvers to the blackguards. Eramis' convoy is a dirty-dozen. Six motorcars are equipped with gun nests, and six semi-trucks are laden with canons.

A formidable force, if it weren't for one factor.

Sevika's own fleet has sevenfold the firepower. And, more importantly, she's got her finger on the pulse of Eramis' psyche.

"He's trying to pull a feint," she says, as she takes the first curve at full speed. "He knows his toys are no match for ours. He's planning something. I can feel it."

"So can I." Silco stares out into the jagged horizon. "The ravine's up ahead."

"He'll try to force us there with an arrowhead move, and pin us against the ridge. Then the trucks will roll in, and the canons will start blazing." Her face is set in grim concentration, and her hands move with the surety of oiled sprockets. "We'll split the caravan. Meet his charge with the first half, send the second half around. Box him in, and cut him down."

"Are the scouts prepped for the maneuver?"

"Stocked, locked, and ready."

"Then, by all means," Silco says, and his teeth cut bright as a blade in the dark. "Show him how it's done."

A third flare bursts overhead. In its brightness, the dimensions of the battle emerge. Eramis' troops, advancing steadily, have already breached the midway. As Sevika predicted, they are aimed for an arrowhead formation: six motorcars, at the vanguard, flanked by two semi-trucks. The canons, mounted atop the flatbeds, are armed and ready to rip.

Eramis himself will keep behind the convoy, in the biggest motorcar, until the battle's won. Then, the spoils will be his to collect, and the Ditch his to reclaim.

Except the spoils, and the Ditch, are already in the Eye's safekeeping.

The only thing waiting for Eramis is the long drop—and the short stop.

Sevika calls the entourage into formation. The two four-wheelers, armored and bristling, ride shotgun. The ten scouts, on the bikes, veer out, circling to form a blockade. The remaining entourage, zooming towards the arrowhead, cuts the distance in two.

As the gap shrinks, Eramis' troops open fire.

Machine-gun blasts rip through the night. The scouts, zigzagging across the plains, dodge the barrage with practiced ease. From their holsters, they unload, not gunfire but canisters, which they toss at the approaching motorcars. A shower of smoke pours from the canisters, and a thick miasma of smog rolls forth. The arrowhead, blinded, slows and stutters, losing momentum.

The blackguards, from the motorcars, make their move. Riding with the wind at their backs, they, too, split off and peel towards the arrowhead. Eramis' troops, struggling through the smoke, fire wildly. The air lights up. Bullets strike off the armor-plated cars. Divots ping against reinforced glass and alloyed chrome.

The entourage is undeterred.

With a surge of tremendous speed, the motorcars barrel forward. Then, at the last moment, they trifurcate into a three-pronged charge. One, a split-second ahead, veers sharply to the left. The second, at the rear, swerves hard to the right. The third, in the middle, plows forward, and drives the arrowhead broadside.

Gunfire cuts a wedge into the enemy's charge, and drives a spike through the core.  Eramis' troops, blindsided by the assault, struggle to hold their ground. Sparks fly and metal groans. The arrowhead becomes a sloppy arc, swinging wildly to and fro. Three of Eramis' motorcars begin fishtailing, then flipping, end over end, into the smoke. A truck skids to dodge the wreckage, and the canons, tipping with their weight, tear loose from their bindings. The vehicle tumbles, wheels-over-axels, and crashes into the dirt. The remaining three motorcars, screeching to a halt, are swallowed by the smog.

Meanwhile, the second prong of the entourage has circled around. It begins closing, by degrees, for the rear. The third, too, is closing in, from the opposite direction. As the smoke begins to clear, Eramis' troops find themselves pinned. Trapped by the wreckage and the Eye's encroaching riders, panic sets in. Retreat would be the sensible choice.

Eramis, tragically, is not a sensible man.

The remaining four semi-trucks, lagging behind the convoy, begin rolling full-tilt into the melee. Their canons, fully-operational, swivel and aim into the eye of the storm. With a deafening BOOM, the sky erupts. The force of the explosion splits the airwaves into a thousand screaming fragments. A  fireball rockets into the fray. The impact is a cataclysmic shockwave.

The Eye's entourage is thrown into disarray. One of the motorcars skids with a metallic screech, and rolls onto its side. A second, flipping, smashes head-on into the smoking hulk of Eramis' downed semi. The third, veering, narrowly misses a collision with a jutting boulder.  Three scouts, caught in the blast, are flung from their bikes. They land in the dirt, only to be crushed under the wheels of Eramis' advancing trucks.

Cursing, Sevika wrestles the wheel. Flaming spiders of debris pinball off the Humvee's windshield. A strip of metal, long as a broadsword, caroms off the hood and embeds itself in the asphalt. Silco braces himself against the dash. His ears are plugged as if with cotton. All he can hear is a high-pitched aria.

The curving sky beyond the glass is red with fire.

In her seat, Sevika stays centered. She's seen this scale of devastation before, and dished out worse. The canonfire is nasty, but its underlying impetus is a dead giveaway: Eramis has no clue what he's doing.

His only recourse is to run the field red. And take anyone and everyone down with him.

"Bastard," Sevika says, and floors it.

Tires shriek, and the Humvee shoots forward like earthbound lightning.  The road ahead, a patchwork of craters, is an obstacle course. But Sevika doesn't slow. She weaves, darts, and dodges, taking the terrain like a rampaging juggernaut.

When the chips are down, she's the best damn driver in the Fissures.

Over the radio, she shouts for the remaining troops to fall in. The second and third prongs of the entourage, shaken by the blast, regroup to surround her.  One, two, three, four, and they're rolling hot. The motorcars, pocked with scorchmarks, are still operational. The four-wheelers, similarly singed, have the treads to weather the worst. The surviving seven scouts have revved their bikes and are closing the gap.

"They're reloading for a second blast," Sevika shouts over the radio. "Don't give them the chance."

A chorus of affirmatives crackles over the line.

Silco keeps a steady grip on the dashboard. The road unspools beneath the tires. The night's clogged with fumes. But his adrenaline is redlined, and with it comes an absolute clarity of purpose: the cold-edged readiness for the kill.

The four semi-trucks, bearing down on them, are a wall of steel, with armor-plated grilles, battering-ram fronts and spike-studded chasers. Their canons, pouring smoke, are swiveling into position.

In Silco's own crosshairs falls a dinged-up Model T, fishtailing badly on its rightmost tread. It stays well back, behind the semi-trucks, and seems content to hang in the periphery. The glass is tinted and there are armed gunmen crouched on built-in platforms at either side of the hood. The passenger's an unknown quantity, but Silco recognizes the flashy gold-plated ornament winking on the bonnet: a gaudy pair of brass knuckles.

Eramis' calling card.

"Sevika," Silco says.

"I see the swine."

"Our priority target. The rest are window-dressing."

"Window-dressing with a side of canonfire."

"I've got a plan."

Sevika's eyes, in the rearview, cut him a glance. "Is it a good one?"

His lips tug, and Silco feels the smile down to the bone. "It will be."

Sevika listens to his terse instructions, and nods. With a flick of the radio switch, she passes the order along. 

The bikes, zigzagging in formation, break off from the Humvee's flank, and close the gap with the trucks. The canons, reloading, pivot to keep the bikes within their sightlines. Their artillery shells are the size of beer kegs, and the blast radius could level a railway. If the bikes get caught in the crossfire, they'll be obliterated.

"Stay tight," Sevika orders on the radio, "and keep a bead on the canons."

The bikes, in response, fan out, and close the gap further. They're a whirr of black chrome and flashing silver, their riders hunched low. The canons, tracking them, prepare to launch the second salvo. Sevika, watching through the rearview, grits her teeth.

"That's it," she mutters. "Just a little more..."

The canons' barrels swivel. A series of sharp clicks sound, as the mechanism locks. The gunners, braced, prepare to fire.

The scouts, a split-second in advance, make their move.

As one, they break formation, streaking off in separate directions. Reaching into their jackets, they lob a volley of little black spheres, which strike the semi-trucks with a resounding series of pings.  Each sphere is the size of a peach pit, and the surface is studded with tiny beads. As the spheres make contact, they burst, and a dark sticky webbing explodes from the center, adhering to the truck's wheels.

In an instant, the webbing solidifies, and the treads are locked into place. With a jolt, the semi-trucks lose traction. The canons, locked in position, are thrown off-balance—and wildly off-target. One truck swerves on its axis, and smashes broadside into the adjacent one. Its own cannons, ripped from their bindings, fly loose and pinwheel in a massive crunch of metal and sparks. The third truck, struggling to break, rams its cab into the wreckage. The canon arcs high and ejects a premature round. The shell, careening skyward, belches a rainbow of sizzling sparks.

"Now!" Sevika orders.

The bikes, dispersing, fall clear as the canons' artillery shell drops and detonates in mid-air—a moon-white zit swelling to swallow the stars. The concussion shears the night into pieces. The Deadlands are swallowed by a searing white light. As the heat washes over the plains, the air itself seems to liquify.

Silco's fingers, folded into Sevika's good ones, are the only anchor.

Her cybernetic handstays locked on the wheel. The Humvee's course is locked straight and steady.  As the blast ripples and ebbs into a distinct stink of ozone, the road resolves once more. The enemy's trucks are a wreckage enrobed in flames. Their canons are smoking hulks. The scout's bikes are circling in a tight formation, and the men, unharmed, are riding high.

All that guards Eramis' Model-T is one lone semi-truck.

Its treads are gummed up with the scouts' webbing. But its canons are intact. And the gunners, though shaken, are scrabbling along the flatbed, and struggling to reload a fresh round of shells.

The Humvee's wheels, spitting gravel, barrel straight ahead.

"Silco," Sevika says, and squeezes his hand before letting go. "In the back."

"The back?"

"Jinx. She left it there."

"Left what?"

"A parting gift." Her eyes lock on his in the rearview. "She must've stashed it, before she sailed off. I saw it in the backseat, when I went looking for you. Maybe she figured you'd need it."

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Silco turns, and reaches to the rear. His fingers grope blindly along the upholstery, until he finds the compartment beneath the backseat. Inside is a small wooden crate. It's wrapped, tightly, in canvas, and there's a note scrawled, in Jinx's unmistakably loopy handwriting.

Semper Paratus

XOXO

Silco pops the crate's lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of straw, are stacks of grenades. Chemical aerosols, shockwaves, incendiaries. And, a few rows down, the real gem: a trio of Chompers.  They're hand-tooled beauties, each with a detachable detonator that, at the squeeze of a button, will unleash a payload of barbed-wire shrapnel at a wounding radius of forty feet.

Silco chooses the biggest, and holds it up to the light. The canister's spraypainted with blue and pink stripes. The clockwork mechanism is crafted into a shark's pointy-toothed grin.

Silco's own grin threatens to split his face in half.

It's a as real as the risk. Real as the battle beyond. Real as the bloodied heart of Zaun waiting in the wings. 

Real as the girl who, wherever she goes, will always have his back.

"Sevika," he says.

"What?"

"Cut in close. I'm going to need a clear shot."

"Like hell," she says, not breaking her stride. "You stick your head out the window, they'll rip it clean off."

"I've no plans to stick my head out."

"Then where—"

"Eramis." He holds up the Chomper. "He deserves the honors."

It takes a moment for Sevika to catch on. When she does, a smile carves the stone of her features. Then, her hands a blur on the wheel, she cuts a hard left.  The Humvee accelerates to the head of the pack. The rest of the entourage follows, kicking up a roostertail of dust. Over the radio, Sevika issues her last orders.

"Blackguards," she raps, "engage. Scouts, with me."

As one, they blaze down the road.

Ahead, the sole remaining truck is struggling to regain traction. The treads are still gummed up. The axels are grinding, and the engine's whining at top pitch. But their artillery, as Sevika advances, is slotting into place. At a hundred yards equidistant, Eramis' Model-T is well out of range. But for the first time, the passenger window is rolled down. There's an unmistakable rotund silhouette peeking out at the advancing storm.  His guards, at the front, are already priming their weapons.

His cannons, finally reloaded, swivel and aimed square.  

"Ready?" Sevika calls.

Silco steadies himself against the seat. "Floor it."

Sevika veers left. The Humvee, swinging hard, cuts a diagonal, and closes the gap with the Model-T. Three scouts, in close pursuit, form a barricade at each flank. The rest of the entourage, in a V-formation, zoom straight for the truck. From beneath the chassis of each motorcar, a row of  cartridge ejectors emerges. Each is mounted with a nozzle, trigger, and a set of canisters.

"Blackguards," Sevika orders, "on my mark."

The canons hum. The blackguards' trajectory is a perfect bullseye.

"Fire."

The motorcars, in unison, unleash their payload. A thick cloud, acid green, spews from the nozzles and billows over the battlefield. Spreading, it envelopes the semi-truck in a haze. It is not the same smog the scouts used earlier to blind their foes. Rather, it's a concoction of potent Fissure gas and nitrous oxide that, in high concentrations, can induce delirium, dizziness, and, if not treated promptly, a long and lingering narcosis.

Both Jinx and Silco have used it: twice, to great effect.

That Sevika—both times—was the target only lends the moment an extra-personal piquancy.

The haze engulfs the semi-truck. The gunners, clinging to the flatbed, cough and cough. They cannot man the cannons. They cannot aim at their targets. They cannot even breathe. Their faces go bright-red, then purple. Their bodies, convulsing, drop like dominoes. A split-second later, the blackguards converge on the truck. As the last man falls, they disembark, masked and armed, and storm the flatbed. Their boots thunder across the metal, and their war-whoops fill the air.

Silco hears none of it.

All his attention is funneling into the distant speck of the Model-T until it swells to fill the glass. Sevika's foot is jammed hard on the gas. The Humvee leaps like a bucking bronco down the mythic Shuriman plains. At its flanks, the scouts keep pace. They are a tight, cohesive unit. Their bikes, like the spokes of a wheel, revolve around a single fixed point.

The Eye and his hand-delivered retribution.

Eramis' guards have already opened fire. The .50 caliber slugs, ripping through the night, land helter-skelter. Bullets zip off the Humvee's enforced plating, and drill small craters into the fender. The scouts, on either side, swerve and spin to evade the strafing. One bullet ricochets off a scout's helmet but doesn't penetrate, a tiny spiderwebbing of cracks fanning across the polycarbonate. Another, zinging past the rearguard, clips a second scout in the shin. He fishtails, but manages to regain control.

The Humvee is undeterred. Sevika keeps a deathgrip on the wheel. Beneath her boot, the accelerator is flush with the floor. The Model-T, with Eramis inside, is a hundred feet away. Then fifty. Then thirty. Then it's there.

Behind the glass, Eramis' face is a ballooning white moon. His eyes are the size of planets. He is howling like a madman.

Sevika relays the signal over the radio.

"Scouts," she shouts. "Break off."

The bikes, as one, peel off the Humvee's flanks. As they do, Sevika yanks the wheel hard right. The Humvee, braking, slides at an angle. Grit fans out. Tires shriek. The rear, jackknifing, cuts a precise U-turn. The momentum sends the guards tumbling over like bowling pins. Their guns go flying. Their bodies roll across the gravel. An unlucky few catch the full brunt of the Humvee's weight, and are crushed underfoot.

As the dust settles, the Humvee is poised, nose-to-nose, with the Model-T.

The two vehicles are separated by mere feet.

The scouts, circling, blockade the spaces in between. Each one is poised on their bike, guns leveled. They are prepared, at a moment's notice, to mow down any survivors.

In the Model-T, Eramis is still howling. His face is a mottled caricature of terror. 

The Humvee's door swings open. Silco slinks out, and steps into the descending silence.

The air is clogged with the stink of cooked rubber and creosote. The moon, cutting its delicate incision through the clouds, unveils a scene of utter carnage. The six motorcars are reduced to flaming heaps. The semi-trucks, gutted and overturned, are a twist of mangled metal. Men are laid out in coffins of hardpacked dirt. Others, twitching feebly, are trapped inside the wreckage.

The final count will be a body-bag or a dozen.

Beyond the perimeter, blackguards, rifles poised, are securing the perimeter. They've already disarmed the straggling guards. The men, cowed, are being lined up against the hoods of their mauled vehicles. The few blackguards wounded in the fray are being hauled off to the medick's vehicle.

In the space of twenty minutes, the battle is done.

Silco takes a savoring breath.  It is a moment of rare serenity, before the next inevitable wave of violence.

But he's ready to meet it—and mete out worse.

With a measured tread, he approaches the Model-T. The windshield is a warped distortion of the smoke-scudded horizon. Behind the glass, Eramis is petrified. A pistol—gold-plated—is brandished in his meaty grip. The safety's off, but the barrel's too shaky to present a real threat.

It's the last showoffishish bluff of a man who's been beaten, and knows it.

"Eramis," Silco says. "Hello."

[crab-crab]

“come back to bed” kisses

I've been writing little snippets of 300 words based of a prompt and wanted to share some!

Legend sighed as he unwillingly rose into consciousness. He felt the bed shift and the blankets pile more firmly around him as his bedmate slipped from the covers. There was barely any light spilling through the curtains and Legend took the absence of body heat personally.

His hand darted out from beneath the covers and latched around the thinner wrist of his partner, ignoring the quiet eep! As he tugged them back towards the bed. Popping his head out from under the covers, Legend glared at Ravio as the merchant braced himself on the bed. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he tugged again on Ravio’s wrist to draw the other man closer to the nest of blankets. “It’s not even light out and I know for a fact you don’t wake up this early normally.” 

“We don’t have eight other people in the house normally” Ravio pulled back on his wrist but Legend did not want to let go. “I need to make sure that there’s enough breakfast for everyone, to do so I need to get up early.”

“They can starve” Legend pulled one more time, fighting back the urge to just reach forward and scoop Ravio back into bed. “This is the first time we’ve had a break in months, they’ll sleep in any way.” He freed his other hand from the blanket nest and reached up to cup the back of Ravio’s head and draw the Merchant so he was now hovering over the blonde, knees braced on the bed and free hand pressing down beside the Vet’s head on the pillow.

With what dim light there was, Legend could make out the flush blooming across Ravio’s face and ears, the Merchants head at just the right angle that inky locks did not hide his eyes and Legend suppressed the urge to grin at the spark of want.

Knowing that he only needed one more thing to fully capture the other, Legend dropped the other wrist to push himself up and press a soft kiss to even softer lips. Ravio squeaked and leaned more into Legend, eyes slipping closed and shuddering as both the Vet’s arms came around him.

Gotcha

Legend tightened his arms around Ravio and rolled, the Merchant’s squawk being muffled into the blankets and Legend settled over the top of Ravio. He was quick to pull the blankets back over the two of them and shut out the weak dawn light that had started to invade the room.

Besides, there were better things to do than leave the bed.

[mmelete]

out-of-context WIP of a little mini- comic I've been drawing.

FT. Ravio in his natural habitat and sheerow lookin doodle-y (I love them sm your honor <3)

I'll probably have the full thing ready by tonight🤞.

Edit: Here's the link to the full thing!

[mothfables]

@cripple-cat

Four was sitting against one of the trees behind Wild’s house enjoying a book when he heard footsteps approaching.

Most of the time the other heroes left him alone when he was reading, acknowledging his need for time to himself, only tending to bother him if he was needed for something. Whoever it was coming towards him now didn’t seem to want his attention- in fact it seemed like they didn’t want him to notice them at all, steps quiet and careful.

Glancing up from his book he saw Legend, tiptoeing barefoot through the grass towards him.

Legend looked up at almost the same time and froze, the veteran hero’s eyes going wide. After a moment he glanced around, like he was making sure there was no one else outside, before scurrying over the rest of the way to where Four sat. Four noted he was still walking on his toes.

When he reached the smith, Legend didn’t sit but instead swayed in place, licking his lips nervously and not meeting his eyes.

“Uh- um. Could you, um.” He stuttered, staring at his toes instead of looking at Four. He began fidgeting with his fingers, and Four realized they were bare of his usual array of rings, leaving only his heart and green holy rings. “I was, um, w-wondering if...”

He trailed off, voice quiet and shy in a way Four had never heard before from the older boy. His shoulders were hunched inwards and he kept playing with his hands, ears tilted down. He looked... small.

Four tilted his head in thought. Legend rarely initiated interactions outside of teasing or bets, and when he did it was usually confident and sure. He was hardly ever shy, and certainly never so quiet.

The longer neither of them spoke the further down Legend’s ears went. He began to turn away, drawing into himself dejectedly, and something in Four’s chest clenched.

“Hey, hold on. I haven’t said no yet. You haven’t even asked me anything.”

Legend turned back at that, a tiny flicker of hope in his eyes that he was trying hard to hide. “B-but you, um, y-you dun’ like it wh’n people b’ther you.”

Four ignored the odd way he was speaking in favour of giving him a reassuring smile. “Normally, yes, But you’re not bothering me. Promise,” he added at Legend’s doubtful look. “What it is you want to ask me?”

Legend bit his lip nervously. “C-could you... couldyoureadtome?” he asked in a rush.

The smith blinked in astonishment. Legend wanting to spend time with him was already a surprise, but wanting to be read to? He shook it off quickly, though, instead patting the ground on his left with another smile. “Sure. Come sit with me? It’s always nicer to read when you’re sitting down, in my opinion.”

The other boy lit up and bounced happily, dropping down to sit next to Four and drawing his knees up to his chest. Four found where he left off before beginning to read aloud.

A few minutes passed where the only sounds were Four’s voice and the chirping of birds. Then there was a pressure on his shoulder; glancing over, he saw Legend curled up against his side, eyes fixed on the book in his hands. One of Legend’s hands drifted up to his mouth almost subconsciously only to be snatched back down.

The whole thing was a little odd, but it didn’t seem harmful, so Four decided to let it be. He continued reading, leaning his head on the other boy’s and earning a happy little sound. Legend curled closer, one hand clutching at Four’s sleeve as the other came up to his mouth again. He didn’t seem to notice.

[amrubrum]

getting pretty hard to defend legend rn ngl

[madamebaggio]

“… and that’s why I believe you should graciously allow me to court you.”

“…”

“…”

“I see.”

“You see? I have just spent the ladt hour talking…”

“It was ten minutes, Arthur.”

“After struggling for months to write…”

“I am actually surprised you know how to write.”

“… for you to say ‘I see’?”

“Well, you didn’t ask me a question, did you?”

“I did!”

“No. You said I should allow you to court me, but you never actually asked me anything.”

“Oh.”

“…”

“Lady Stark, would you do me a great honor and allow me to court you?”

“Yes.”

“That easy?!”

“Yes, Arthur. That easy.”

[rebornofstars]

Cracking open pistachios (the bestest of best snacks) and thinking of Grandpa Wind struggling to pry the shells apart and having to ask one of the Chain for help and then they won't let him live it down because he got so mad that the Old Man Fingers wouldn't let him eat his pistach >:) It made more sense in my mind lol

unfortunately, i don't eat pistachios, so i cannot relate to your pain 😔

"What are you doing?" Legend asked. Wind snarled indistinctly. "Suffering." "What?" "I'm suffering." "He's suffering," Wild repeated, a grin in his voice. "C'mon, keep up, vet." "Do you need..." Legend paused. "Help?" Wind turned on him with a look of utmost fury. Wild snickered. Legend raised an eyebrow. "...Yeah," Wind admitted, deflating. He thrust out a hand. "I can't open my pistachios." "You must have gotten arthritis in your old age," Wild said unhelpfully, as Legend took the little nuts in his hand and surveyed them with an expression of extreme bewilderment. "For the last time," Wind said. "I'm not old. And I definitely don't have arthritis." It wasn't even a lie. "Well, what's wrong, then?" "My fingers are too big," Wind grouched. "Too big?" Wild echoed. "What does that even mean? Too big?" "Yeah, too big," Legend said, thrusting the handful of now-shelled pistachios back at Wind. Then he added spitefully, "c'mon, keep up, Cook."

[coffeeshib]

hii here's another caitvi snippet for anyone interested - just caitlyn existing kindly & affectionately, threatening vi's peace