#maggot sans

[fr3nzyvirus]

Maggots eat mold…and other decaying things. So uh, Maggot is a little famished. Good thing he’s easy to punt! (I’m so glad maggot can canonically fluctuate their size).

Mold sans belongs to @scri--bble

Maggot belongs to me.

I love having my baby interact with other‘s ocs.

How the heck do I draw so fast?! I’m magic!

[theboysarebackintown-tokillyou]

Gang I drew you :3

(what's your favorite type of moss?)

AWESOME SAUCE! Straight in the fanart folder!

(*Fontinalis antipyretica! Willow moss is the understandable name! It’s so yummy!)

[askunderbug]

The man himself

[ken-tfc]

ALLRIGHT EVERYONE ANOTHER ONES DOWN! I’ll take a break from full backgrounds for a bit because it’s quite exhausting but if you have any more characters you would like drawn slap em in my ask box and I’ll get to it eventually (I have some school stuff to handle In between it all haha)

Firewall belongs to: @frogs-stealing-sleep

Maggot sans belongs to: @fr3nzyvirus

Lowpoly frisk belongs to: @toasted-swirls

Rat undone and Alphys belongs to: @cricket1331

Dakota belongs to @our-tale

IN NEED OF OFFERINGS

im drawing a couple of examples of what the train interior would look like for undertrack. PLEASE OFFER YOUR UNDERTALE OCS TO ME!!! sans AUs, Alphys AUs, Grillbys AUs, Original OCs.. Etc. (they will be drawn into the scene)

thanks!! -PS theres no real end date to this unless you find it like over a year later lmao

[vanglaggle]

*stands up to podium and taps mic* i don't like when people lean into the "scary" aspect of horror because they often treat him like he's just a rotting scary corpse and that his head injury makes him terrifying

*they boo me off stage and throw tomatoes* fuuuck.....

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

Today I was introduced to someone named "Spamton" by @littlewoggysaffle and @empressumbreon

They told me Spamton is the same guy as Sans Undertale and then showed me a gif of his head in a toilet so what I'm getting from this is that Spamton is Sans Undertale but as the Skibidi Toilet guy.

What the fuck is happening.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Ah killer and the trauma of being invaded and taken over. I do think that the feeling and thought of invasion and penetration is extremely stressful and traumatizing to him, enough to trigger Stage 3. Perhaps even enough to trigger trauma related delusions and/or hallucinations, as well as flashbacks.

[gl0wsitckkkk]

I have to wake up at 7 tomorrow.

It’s 2.

SO FUNNNN

[fr3nzyvirus]

(Scheduled for 11:23)

I got bored.

Ink is about the height of Maggot LMAO

Why is Fresh so large here?! HA.

[theboysarebackintown-tokillyou]

Can I get a hug?

(if you wanna draw it, heres female halts 2 forms)

Sure why not.

(Kinda got it wrong, but oh well.)

(Also nice Dandy‘s world pin thing. I used to play Dandy‘s world.)

[majimassqueaktoy]

Gary's polyamorous boot camp

[rememberwren]

A Girl (Not Mine) || 1

Ghost is a little obsessed with Soap and a lot obsessed with Soap's girlfriend--you.

About this: ghoap/fem!reader, suspension of disbelief regarding anything military related is actually necessary for enjoyment, canon-typical trauma for Simon, intrusive thoughts, slut shaming, voyeurism, fingering, accidentally seeing nudes not meant for you, poor writing unless you squint, try squinting. 4k

-

“I’m so glad I got a girl to think of, 

Even though she isn’t mine.”

-

The first time Johnny mentions you, the 141 is fresh from a month-long leave.

Ghost has a love-hate relationship with time spent off duty. He’d like to enjoy it—to do fuck all, to hike through Clayton Vale twice in a day if it suits him, to drink tea for every meal. But all leave does is remind him of the glaring emptiness in his life, the one he usually fills with violence. So he spent the month climbing up the walls and crawling out of his skin, waiting to be called back like a dog brought to heel. 

Here was his comeuppance for craving something to fucking do instead of relaxing the way Price had told him to do. Now they were on their way to San Lorenzo in Ecuador dealing with Ghost’s least favorite flavor of criminal: drug cartels. 

It’s too close to Mexico. Too close to that which he would forget gladly if it didn’t come with the loss of so many valuable skill sets. He’s crawling out of his skin for a whole new reason, watching the water fly by beneath them, deep in memories. 

Ghost takes all those feelings, fears, remembrances and swallows them whole. Lets them sink to a sour, dark place in his belly. He sits tense on the helo, still except for the rise and fall of his chest, his rifle a familiar weight across his knees. Sometimes he has to shut his eyes, swallowing against the rising nausea. 

He only has half an ear on Garrick and Johnny’s conversation beside him, but it is all he needs to follow along. 

“—lass of my own now,” Johnny is saying around a laugh, his accent thick enough to chafe at Ghost’s skin in a way he doesn’t want to examine, one that leaves him feeling raw but not necessarily hurt. “So no more picking up the barflies back in Hereford.”

“She making an honest man out of you, Tav?” 

“Aye, you could say that.” Johnny sounds proud of the fact. It all is so far from anything Simon has experienced in his life that he feels no distant stirring of empathy, not even a muted sense of familiarity in the words. Honest men do not exist. 

Not to mention, Simon’s never had a woman (willingly) and he never will. 

“You love her?” Garrick asks, earnestly interested to hear the answer. Ghost couldn’t care less.

“Aye. There’s something special about her.” 

“What, she’s cool with anal?”

Johnny crows with laughter, and now Ghost does feel something: annoyance, cloying, creeping up his spine like a spider in a web headed for the wiggling maggot of his brain. 

“Will you two ever shut up?” he snaps. “Not a moment’s fucking peace since we boarded.”

“Sorry LT,” Johnny says, sounding genuinely apologetic. Ghost cuts his eyes toward the other man, assessing for honesty. Johnny’s face is too expressive: brows lifted, eyes wide and earnest, mouth tipped into a tiny grimace, like the thought of irritating Ghost gives him real pain. Between the two of them, Ghost can’t help but think that it’s Johnny who needs a mask if he wants to survive in the world. 

Ghost doesn’t have the energy for this. He goes back to watching the scenery pass by. They are over trees now: thick lush jungle, the scent of which he associates with pain—plenty of which was his own. Plenty of which he caused to others. 

“What about you, LT?” Johnny asks, calling out over the sound of the helicopter blades. “Do you have a woman back home?”

Ghost lets his head turn, slow and dangerous. Johnny’s audacity never fails to surprise him. “What do you think, Johnny?”

“Honestly?” 

“Go on, then.”

“You look like if yeh’ve got a woman, she’s probably locked in yer basement.” 

(right where she’d belong.)

Garrick slaps Johnny’s thigh, his face mottled with panic. He hisses under his breath, something like, There are faster ways to die, Tav! Less painful ways, too, Ghost thinks. He fixes Johnny with a dead stare. The silence stretches, growing long and thin and dangerous, like the blade of a knife, until Johnny looks away. 

“Think less about my private life, Sergeant,” he warns him. 

“Not often you tell me to think less, LT.” 

Ghost just grunts, finished with the conversation, returning his unseeing eyes to the trees and slipping back into his own memories. 

-

That should be—well, not the end of it. He expects Johnny to become insufferable about it; that’s just the other man’s way. Still, Ghost had never expected to see you. 

He’s doing paperwork in the rec room, too stifled by the tiny, enclosed space of his office to remain there. Paperwork and debriefing are always his least favorite parts of an op. Give him a gun with which to kill and he will gladly kill; give him a pen with which to write and he spends half the time thinking about burying it in his own eye. Garrick and Johnny are there nearby fucking around on their phones having finished with their easy portion of the work ages ago. 

A phone is what Johnny thrusts beneath Ghost’s nose. It takes all of his mental fortitude not to flinch away from the unexpected action (or, more likely, not to rip Johnny’s arm off and beat him half to death with it). His eyes flicker down to the screen on instinct and—there you are. 

You have one eye squinted shut, your hand up to create a visor against the overbearing sun. The picture shows you from the bust upwards, and Simon sees it for approximately one full second before he grips Johnny’s wrist in a brutal hold and forces the hand and the phone away. 

It’s already too late. He’s committed you to memory. The way your hair sits, its color in the blistering sun. The curve of your lips (fuckable, he thinks against his will) as you give Johnny behind the camera an exasperated smile. The arch of your nose (images now—fingers pinching noses shut, forcing mouths further down his cock just to watch them choke and struggle)—

“Get that out of my face,” he grits out through his teeth. His thoughts won’t stop, not now that the floodgates have been opened, and it makes him feel like a dog backed into a corner, frightened-violence rising up in the back of his throat like bile. 

—the smooth line of your throat (and his hands around it, choking the light from your eyes just to fuck you when you’re soft and pliable and he doesn’t have to listen to you crying and begging)—shut UP!—

“It’s just my girl, sir,” Johnny laughs, his own eyes flickering back down to your image on the phone, like they are drawn to you. Like it is hard to look away. Ghost doesn’t have that problem—he has some  discipline left. “And it’s not as if she’s naked.” 

Ghost grips the pen in his hand so tightly that the plastic shell cracks. He’s barely keeping it together, sick and afraid and horrified and angry that Johnny has done this to him—has done this to his own girl—

His voice is rough when he croaks out: “What makes you think I care to see her, Sergeant?” 

“‘S it wrong to share the most important person in my life with the other most important people in my life?” Johnny says, eyes too guileless to be taken seriously. 

“Share less,” he snaps. 

“Been saying that to me an awful lot lately, sir.” 

“A good Sergeant would take my words to heart.” 

“A good lieutenant would know a futile lesson when it’s biting him in the arse.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Johnny. As much as I hate paperwork, I’d write you up—gladly.” 

Johnny gapes. “What for?”

Ghost grins without mirth, mask stretching around his features. Even grinning cruelly like this, his face feels unused to any expression that is adjacent to happiness. He swears darkly: “I’ll find a reason.”

It would send anyone else running. Even Garrick looks fearful, though fascinated: the same look a man wears when he’s watching a car crash in progress. But if sense were dynamite, Johnny wouldn’t have enough to blow his nose. Instead, he just flops down on the couch close enough to flutter the pages in Ghost’s lap. Close enough for their knees to brush. 

“Jesus, you’re a tadger today,” Johnny says quietly, boot knocking against Ghost’s, a touch he feels all the way up his leg. “Shove off some of that paperwork on us. What’s the use of being a lieutenant if you can’t lord it over your sergeants?”

“I’m sorry, us?” Garrick asks. 

“I don’t shirk my responsibilities, Johnny,” Ghost says coldly, gathering his papers. His elbow brushes against Johnny’s ribs, the firm, burning warmth of the other man’s body. He jerks away. He’ll take the stifling seclusion of his office, that makeshift coffin, before he subjects himself to any more of this. “You’d do well to follow my example.”

-

Ghost resolutely does not think of you. Not during quiet lazy moments on base, not during the frustration of training recruits, especially not during the eerie calm of missions. You do not cross his mind. 

His dreams are another thing altogether. 

There are the dreams where he hurts and the dreams where he is hurting, and he doesn’t know which are worse. He only knows that they are made worse by your strange presence: your body bent and being broken in by others; you, bent and being broken in by him. He wakes in cold sweats, jaw aching from gritting his teeth in his sleep. 

He hates himself for this last place where he cannot execute control: his subconscious. 

-

“Mail?” Johnny asks cheerfully at the sight of Garrick seated on the bench outside the DFAC, a stack of papers and letters laying on his lap. 

Johnny is sweaty, gray t-shirt clinging to his toned body as he (for once) keeps a companionable silence at Ghost’s side. They have been training recruits all day—work which Ghost considers far beneath his pay grade, but which he can’t refuse when ops are so slow to arrive and when he is so eager (desperate) to keep busy. Ghost lets himself sit heavily on the bench a safe distance away from Garrick, sweat cooling on his own body. 

He’s not ready to be alone yet. 

He’s allowed to do that. To want company. Of all the people on base, Garrick and Johnny (and Price) might be the most tolerable of the lot of them. During the rare moments when the pitiful piece of humanity left inside him craves companionship, this is the least painful method to mainline it. 

He ignores the lack of letters for him. There is no mail for Ghost—there never is. 

Garrick passes Johnny no less than four envelopes. Johnny’s soft smile as he flips through them speaks volumes. Ghost can guess who they’re from: his mother likely, who writes as often as she can. One of his various sisters, surely. Take your pick.  Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Johnny flip through the letters and settle on one in particular, thicker than the others, tearing it open and tugging the letter out. 

The pictures slip from the folded piece of paper and fall to the ground. 

Johnny dives to grab them, but all it does is bring Garrick’s attention to them more. Even Ghost’s interest is piqued, his dark eyes giving up pretending to watch the recruits limp back to their barracks to shower before dinner and following Johnny’s hasty movements instead, watching the hot flush that crawls up the back of his Sergeant’s neck. 

“What are those?” Garrick asks. 

“No’ a thing.” 

Garrick lights up. He practically tosses his letter to the side. “She sent you pictures?” 

“Possibly,” Johnny says smuggly, the images—old fashioned Polaroids, a nice touch—pressed to his chest. His eyes narrow at the expression on Garrick’s face. “Don’t even think about it, Gaz—!”

Garrick pounces. The two begin grappling, both of their faces split into wide grins. Johnny can only defend himself with one arm, his other protectively clutching the photographs to his bosom. They take each other to the ground and Ghost watches, half interested and half irritated, wondering who will win. 

The pictures go flying—and fate’s invisible bitch of a hand causes them to land at Ghost’s feet. Garrick and Johnny freeze.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, the same way he knows that he’s going to. Ignoring their renewed struggles on the ground as they fight to untangle themselves and stand, he leans down and reaches for the photographs.

The white of the Polaroid’s edges contrast nicely with his dark gloves as he gathers the pictures together like a deck of scattered cards. 

“LT—“

They’re relatively tame. Perhaps you knew the high risk of sending them. In one you are kneeling on a bed amongst a sea of mussed, white sheets, wearing nothing but a t-shirt that you have tugged down between your parted thighs to offer yourself some modesty. It is painful to flip to the next one, but pain calls to Ghost, lures him in. In another you’re wearing some strappy lingerie but still covered artfully by the sheets, both hands covering your eyes, a grin on your face like you are mid laugh. Did Johnny take these photos of you himself? Did a stranger? A friend? Another shows your side profile, back arched, topless, every inch of you curved and poised. 

You’re (a filthy little slut) so fucking pretty. 

“Give ‘em back, LT, please,” Johnny asks gently, like he expects Ghost to tear them to shreds. Or confiscate them. 

Ghost drops the photographs to the bench, wishing he could scrub the images of you from his mind. He shouldn’t have picked them up in the first place. It’s adding fuel to the fire of his broken brain, and he knows that he will pay for it dearly. 

Johnny is talking. “—shy, she’d just die to know you saw.”

“She’ll only know if you tell her, Johnny,” Ghost reminds him. His mouth feels numb, his brain the quiet granted by white noise, a conglomerate of screams. 

Johnny frowns. “Suppose so. You alright?” 

“Since Ghost saw—“ 

“No, Gaz.” 

Ghost watches the two of them enter the building. 

His hand burns, where he has palmed the picture of you topless. He stands and slips the Polaroid into his back pocket. It’s on the tip of his tongue to call out for Johnny and give him the picture back—he could find some excuse, and Johnny would believe him, he knows it—but he doesn’t. He makes for his room, feeling sick with himself. He isn’t hungry. Not for food. 

-

Ghost is compromised. 

The thought replays in his mind over and over again as he drives to Price’s house in Solihull. You and Johnny have crawled beneath his skin and infected him, dug your way into his DNA and are affecting everything from his decision making capabilities to his dreams. He knows that going anywhere where you both will be is a mistake, but it’s one he can’t seem to help hurdling himself toward at high speed. 

Nothing will happen, he tells himself, knuckles white against the steering wheel. He only does what he allows himself to do—no more. The others will be there at least, Garrick and Price and Johnny himself. Physical barriers between him and you. Human meat shields, if necessary. Ghost wouldn’t dare to lay a finger on you. (But who would stop him if he tried? Who could?) You are safe, he tells himself. 

He is the last to arrive, dragging his feet up the concrete steps to the two story brick historical home that Price owns. He lets himself in the way that Price told him to and can tell by the eerie silence of the house that everyone is already outside enjoying the well-landscaped yard. Already he sees the evidence of you: a purse (go through it) laid neatly on the dining room table. He sets his keys beside it but does not touch it. 

Ghost doesn’t bother trying to delay the inevitable. Every part of him wants to run, but that’s all he’s ever wanted his whole life. He’s used to it by now, used to being forced to walk toward the thing which terrified him. He squares his shoulders and slides open the patio door, slipping back out into the muggy heat of the afternoon, face mask in place, hood up.  

The landscaping is one of the best features of Price’s house. The privacy fence is tall and appealing to Ghost’s seclusive nature, the lawn neatly clipped. There is a hedgerow running along the southern edge of the fence that is meticulously maintained. Flower beds lined with bricks rest along the house full of geraniums and phlox. The patio is smooth stone with an inlaid fire pit that would be crackling if the weather were any milder. An iron-wrought table sits nearby surrounded by chairs, and seated there are Garrick, Johnny, and Price. 

You are over by the flowers, kneeling in the soft grass, picking phlox just a few shades darker than the sundress you’re wearing, the one that skims your soft thighs. Ghost’s eyes roam over you and away all before your head even turns at the sound of the door opening. 

“LT,” Johnny calls, lighting up. “You made it!” 

“Didn’t think you’d show, Lieutenant,” Garrick says with a smile. 

“As if he’s got something better to be doing than spending time with us,” Johnny crows. 

“Jesus, will you two leave the man alone? Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already regretting coming,” Price says. Ghost inclines his head, grateful for the backup. 

He hears your approach, the soft sound of your flats against the patio stone. You are small (weak) compared to him, craning your head up to look in his eyes. He hates the dark part of his brain that calls you easy prey as he watches you twist the phlox stems between anxious fingers. 

“You must be Simon—” Johnny shakes his head a little, subtle, visible only out of the corner of Ghost’s eye. “—ah—Ghost? I mean—” 

“I don’t care what you call me,” he admits.

“Ghost,” you settle where it is nice and safe. “It’s nice to meet you. John talks about you all the time.”

“Likewise,” Ghost says flatly, hoping you will not mistake it for a compliment. 

Garrick snorts. “Never shuts up about you is more likely.”

There aren’t enough chairs for everyone, so you sit on Johnny’s lap, legs crossed demurely, skirt riding up around your upper thighs. He wonders about the softness of your skin, wonders if his calloused touch would hurt you or if you’re used to Johnny’s by now. He could make it hurt. The thought doesn’t come with any zing of pleasure, just the cold apathy of fact. Has Johnny ever tried that? Has he ever—

Ghost’s gloved hand clenches into a fist, curling around the iron armrest of the chair. He takes a measured breath and holds it until his lungs ache. Those thoughts aren’t his own. They come from the dark part that Roba seeded inside him, that part with creeping vines too deep to root out. That part with thorns. 

He could hurt you, the same way he could hurt anyone, he tells himself. But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to. 

He does only what he allows himself to do. No more. No less. 

You and Johnny stand, heading into the house to retrieve a round of drinks for everyone. Ghost watches Johnny’s hand dip low on your back to the curve of your ass as he guides you through the open door, shutting it behind you. 

“Are you alright, Simon?” Price asks around a cigar. “I know meeting new people isn’t exactly in your repertoire.”

“Don’t mother me.”

“Don’t have to be your mother to care about you.”

“Garrick—get lost,” Ghost barks. 

The iron chair legs screech against the stone of the patio as Garrick stands hastily. “Had the same thought, sir. Hedges look lovely this time of year.”

When Garrick is properly out of earshot, pretending to find amusement in the neat hedgerows along the fence line, Ghost says: “I shouldn’t have come. I’m… I— can’t be left alone with her.” 

“With—? Soap’s gal?”

Ghost grits his teeth in shame and nods. 

“Do you know her?” 

Ghost shakes his head in the negative, but it’s not necessarily true. He knows a thousand women just like her, soft and unexpecting. The betrayal always cuts deeper than his cock could reach (estoy preso, somos lo mismo, por favor).

He stands, chair legs dragging against the stone. “This was a mistake. I need to leave.” 

“If you say so,” says Price, knowing better than to argue. “Go around the side. You won’t even have to see them.” 

“My keys are inside. I’ll be quick.” 

“Take care of yourself, Simon,” says Price, his eyes dark and lips downturned as he watches Ghost stalk to the patio door and slip inside. 

-

He braces himself to see you and Johnny in the kitchen, but when the door slides open near-silent, neither of you are anywhere to be seen. Like a fool, he considers himself lucky. Quiet as his namesake, Ghost goes to the table and picks up his keys, palming them. 

That’s when he hears it. The unmistakable muted slap of flesh on flesh. 

(Go look.)

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, but that is his modus operandi these days: failing himself, doing what he isn’t meant to, seeing what is not for his eyes. His feet carry him silently to the door, which is cracked open just wide enough for him to see through into the room. It is a guest bedroom judging by the bland decor, the queen sized bed. Johnny has you sprawled on it, your sundress hitched up around your waist, his fingers buried to the final knuckle inside your cunt. Ghost can hear the way it squelches from all the way outside the door, knows that you must be dripping down Johnny’s wrist. 

“Keep quiet, love,” Johnny pants, one hand over your mouth (he’s not doing it right) to muffle the whines and groans trying to slip past your lips. “Needy little thing, aren’t yeh? Squirming in my lap, making my cock hard right there in front of my Captain, in front of my Lieutenant—“

You whine something back, but it is lost into his palm. 

“Don’t have time to get my cock in you,” Johnny sighs, twisting his fingers inside you, hooking them to press against that tender spot past your pubic bone that has your knees knocking together. He shifts his palm down to grip your neck, your panting breaths filling the room. “But you can bet this dress is coming off as soon as we’re home, do y’hear me?”

“Yessir,” you whisper, and it has Ghost’s cock throbbing. 

This is not for him. He thinks about Johnny’s words from months ago: that you are shy. There’s no chance you would ever want to be seen like this by him. Reaching out, he grips the doorknob and quietly tugs the door closed, til the sound of Johnny’s palm slapping against your clit is muffled behind the wood. 

He takes his keys and is gone before you ever know he was there. 

-

Johnny texts him later that night: 

Why’d you leave early, you numpty? We wanted more time with you. 

Ghost doesn’t respond. He’s too busy spiraling in his own flat, losing control every few minutes and slipping back into that place of pain and blood and dirt. 

An hour later, Johnny ends up adding, My girl wants me to say she was glad she got to meet you. Only Jesus knows why! Ghost definitely doesn’t respond to that. But he doesn’t delete the messages either.

[nevadas-night-time-novelist]

More 2B x Hank x Reader

I am hungry

Polyamory am i right lol

2B x Reader x Hank

CW: Gore, Hank gets fucked up (when don't they tho), mentions of medical bugs

Doc worried when he needed to send you and Hank out, terrified that the implants in your spine would read [TERMINATED] and he'd have to hurry to anchor your souls and forcefully pull you back to the world of the living.

Hank was a loose canon at the best of times, but adding their much smaller, adorable lover into the fray made them go into reckless overdrive. He would do anything, absolutely anything to shield your body from harm. They were used to it, pain was something they'd come to expect and deal with, but any harm to you would cut deeper than any physical wound would ever.

And that lead to your current situation, you posted up on a chair next to Hank's bed as they deliriously slurred their words, high as a kite on whatever Doc had pumped into his system to quell the pain while he was reattaching a severed arm with small, precise sutures.

You hadn't seen it coming, an attack from behind, yet Hank did. In a split second, he thrust his body in the way, assailant's sword cleaving through his arm instead of your spine. Your back still sustained damage, but nothing nearly as terrible as it could've been.

Hank's giant hand squeezed your tiny one, breaking your reflection on the mission, and despite the delirium, they offered a smile. "Tiny.... Hands."

"Screw the mission!" Sanford barked as he lunged into the driver's seat, you and Deimos helping support Hank's weight as you two climbed into the truck bed. "What little we got will have to do, I ain't riskin' an ass whoopin' from Doc 'cause we let you two get fucked up."

Medical stuff was more of San's field, but so was driving, and a quick get-away was needed right now, with two MAGs thundering out of the base towards the vehicle. Deimos took off one of Hank's many, many decorative belts, and used it as a makeshift tourniquet to try and stop them bleeding out all over the truck because he would have to clean it otherwise.

"I can take them-" Hank tried to sit up and throw his missing arm, but you pushed them back down and chastised them.

"Don't be so stupid Hank, the last thing I need is you getting more hurt." And that settled them down.

Sanford had seen to your back once the four of you arrived home, Doc preoccupied with Hank's more severe injury. "Don't think you'll even need stitches Lucky, just a bloody cut that'll need disinfecting and a bandage."

"Can you move your fingers?" Doc spoke up, and Hank raised their reattached arm, slowly wiggling the digits. "Good, keep it clean or you could get an infection, and I really don't want to have to bring out the medical maggots again."

Doc sighed and rested an arm around your shoulders after taking off his bloodied gloves, mindful of your aching back. "You two will be the death of me, I swear." He took off his mask and sighed again, he looked stressed and tired.

"Sorry sweetheart." You kissed his scarred cheek, and he offered a relaxed smile. "I know it's scary sending us out, but I promise Hank and I will keep each other safe, and be more vigilant."

Doc returned the kiss, taking your chin into his hand and meeting your softer lips with his rougher ones. Hank grunted when your kiss lingered too long. "What about MY kiss?" They grumbled while casting their gaze between you two, now sitting upright.

"Alright Hanky, don't get so butthurt." You giggled, both you and Doc going in to showering him with love too.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

*squints out through a headache and the horrors* okay someone needs to tell me uh *checks notes*

what are yaoi hands (in the spirit of Edwin, I have never actually read yaoi) because apparently they gave people trauma

why is sans undertale sexy

who is reigen and why is he sexy

why is everyone telling me to never make a homestuck post

thank you kindly tumblr maggots for your assistance

[painyrainy]

well like 54 of yall voted on that poll so about 92% of them that voted 'yes' better interact with this post. /j

Left Unspoken - 1

CW for vauge mentions of blood and maggots, not important to the story

The autumn leaves crunched underfoot as Giyu made his way through the orange forest. It was relaxing, breathing in the crisp air without having to think about the demons that lay further in.

Except, that was his job now. To think about the next mission, to think that this day may be his last. Giyu wasn't very good at his job if these things were expected of him.

“Kaw, K-Kaw!”

“Was that… Kanzaburo?” The rusty voice could only match the one crow. “God dammit. I thought I told him to stay behind!”

“Kanzab-”

“Giyu-san! Report to the Butterfly Mansion for fur- further instructions! This is not a mission!”

The crow landed upon his dark-red covered shoulder, leaning into the tangled mess of Giyu's hair. It really was an old crow, though a great companion to have in such a lonely world.

“Not a mission…?” The raven-haired man muttered, lifting his hand to pet Kanzaburo on his feathered head. “If it's not a mission, then what do they want with me?"

“You're here to collect instructions…? I don't know what to tell you, Water Hashira-sama, I've not got a clue on the manner.”

The search for the brief which the Master had provided for him was proving quite difficult. The estate was busy at this hour, with people constantly brushing against his shoulders.

“It's best to just hurry up and get these instructions,” Giyu mutters to himself, the constant noise stimulation building the bricks of chokable nausea in his gut.

“Tomioka- San?”

The raven-haired man's rising anxiety jumps up his throat as his coworker addresses him. People sneaking up on him was never a great idea, for himself, anyway.

Turning around to face the elder Kocho, he mutters out a “Sorry, yes?”, the awkwardness of the situation making Giyu stare at the tiles below their feet.

“I hear you were looking for instructions?” The woman's calm voice breaking through the hubbub of the hospital. “I've been looking for you everywhere. Anyway, follow me, I'll just show you.”

The long-haired butterfly woman leads him through the pistriene corridors of the hospital, the chatter fading away to only the sounds of cleaning and small wheels rolling.

Hospitals always gives him a sense of dread. People may come in, and some may not come out. Even more so that most folk don't even get the luxury of sitting in a bed, even if it just be for a bit. They could have died on the blanket of red stained leaves, the maggots their only company until the earth- or a demons gut- claimed them.

“I've been told to notify you on a sort of… Social exercise?”

“Social?” Giyu unhelpfully repeats, his mind rushing back to the white walls of the mansion. Delayed shock sets in at the emphasised word. What, was he really that noticeably introverted that they need to put him in a social exercise?

“Yes… Recently, lower moon one has been slain by the hands of two highly ranked hashira. One of them injured his vocal chords, and needs rehabilitation before he attends his first Hashira Meeting. And, well, the Master decided to put you there because you could work on your speech regardless of any injury.”

Oh. So it wasn't even about him, not mostly anyway. He's to go in, talk at some guy who can't talk back, (which is exactly what doesn't happen in every single conversation he's ever had,) and leave. “What of the… other?”

The answer hits him before he can finish the sentence. His face burns red as Kanae Kocho responds in a mournful tone.

“Dead. Please, do mind what you say near him, I hear the two were great friends. He's quite the character.”

The raven-haired man mumbles in agreement. A similar fate as him; tortured to become Hashira at the expense of another. Giyu's not sure of what to think, other than send his silent condolences for the man's friend.

“Why can't you do it…? It's more of a rehabilitation, isn't it? To rehabilitate this guys voice…?”

Kanae sighs, brushing her bangs into place. “I suppose I could. It's just… I want to try and get him better… Not just physically? I know him, and he'd never open up to me.”

“Oh.”

For once in his life, Giyu doesn't prod.

As Kocho opened the door to a room brightened from the autumn sun, Giyu hadn't even notice the man sitting up under the covers at first. The only thing that catches his eye is the man's deep violet eyes, linking to his, the shade almost familiar.

Sanemi Shinazugawa is a pale, monochrome man by Giyu's first impression, but as his gaze looks deeper, there's more colour to his grey appearance. The scar- no, scars that litter his face cut up the greyish skin. The pale dusty pink decorating noticeable eyebags and kissed upon his scarred cheeks. His eyelashes…

Giyu is sure if he was given a pen and paper he'd be able to draw him perfectly without mistake, that is how… Mesmerising this man is.

He is stunned out of staring by the door shutting slowly behind him, and there the reality of the situation sets in. He's gotta sit here, with this random guy and try and improve their talking skills. Why can't someone else do it? Giyu thinks he'd much rather die to a demon one million times than have to talk about feelings or whatnot.

Regardless of this, the raven-haired man sits down anyway. On the stool next to the bed- Sitting on the bed is too personal, in his opinion. And by the look Giyu was getting even the stool was too close.

“Hello.”

If looks could kill, Giyu would be blended into a meat smoothie by now.

“I'm Giyu Tomioka. A hashira. I've been put here to, er, help rehabilitate your speech…?”

The same dull look wasn't helping the already ass self presentation. “What am I supposed to say anyway?! Goddamn it…”

“So… um… Can you talk at all right now…?”The raven-haired man internally facepalmed. “Of course he can't talk- that's why I'm here!”

The scarred man seemed to have the same thought process as he wheezed a scoff. Dispite the obvious answer, Shinazugawa still opened his mouth, brows furrowed and eyes alight.

“Fuc-”

The raspy response didn't last long before the man doubled over into the covers, gagging and clawing at the bandages wrapping his throat.

Giyu jumps back off the stool, then almost as suddenly lifts a hand to rub Shinazugawa's back in mediocre comfort. That doesn't last long either after the wheezing man flinches and slaps his hand away.

Giyu sighs, rubbing his reddening hand in defeat. This was obviously impossible.

He should just give up. Tengen was way more chatty than him if they wanted another hashira, even if half the stuff he said were innuendos. Yes. He should just give it to him.

Turning to the door, Giyu accepts defeat, he gives up. What's the point? From seemingly nowhere, a firm hand grasps his haori, pulling him back with enough force to make the man fall over. Sabito’s side of haori. And there he realises, after stepping to face the scarred man. As he gazes into those deep, but light, apologetic purple eyes, he realises.

“Okay. I'll stay…” Giyu mumbles, seemingly to himself.

Shinazugawa pulls his hand away, back onto the bed, and looks away. It's in an almost bashful but irritated manner that stuns Giyu from his first impression of the man.

And Giyu decides, there and then, in the brightly lit hospital room, that it is his duty to help this man who is so different but so like himself. So different, but so similar to Sabito.

[dungeon-meshi-tournament]

Like last time, asking people about different monsters' fuckability is a good way to get them to say funny things. So here's some of the comments I got on the Least Fuckable Monster in the Dungeon Tournament that cracked me up, sorted by which poll they were commented on.

Man-eating plant vs Skeleton (round 1 part 1)

big L for the undertale fandom. at least the man eating plant has something resembling lips you know

me: [suspiciously passionate argument about the versatility the plants could have with their vines and bulbs and how it could easily apply to multiple kinks at once thus has a larger audience it can apply to] also me: hehe skelly because bone :)

skeleton? on the sans undertale website?

Living picture vs Dryad (round 1 part 1)

Me desperately resisting the compulsion to black out & vote on dryad simply because she's there and I'm but a lesbian

Minotaur vs Warg (round 1 part 1)

dogy

Green slime vs Undine (round 1 part 2)

Would you rather fuck a slug or a puddle?

Kraken vs Gargoyle (round 1 part 2)

one of these has their own porn category irl and its not the gargoyles

the kraken is lubed up for my safety whereas the gargoyle would probably chafe everything and i dont like that. exfoliating my pussy. nothanks

How is this possible Gargoyles are like B+ Tier in monster fucker circles, a Krakens smallest tentacle would be thrice the width of a human

Skeleton vs Living picture (round 2 part 1)

Take that sans undertale

Ghoul vs Skeleton (round 3)

ROTS ON YOU ROTS ON YOU ROTS ON YO

hello???? at least the ghoul still has some meaty bits left, how are you gonna fuck a skeleton??

look at least you can disinfect bones you're going to get exciting new diseases from a ghoul.

necrophilia isn't fun if there aren't maggots so vote skeleton

Dungeon rabbit vs Bladefish (quarter finals)

to shreds you say

bracket of oof ow my genital

Dungeon cleaners vs Giant parasite (quarter finals)

nah i could totally fuck those bricks

Bladefish vs Treasure insects (finale)

bladefish isNOT fuckable but what if it gives you bottom surgery? i prompt you that