#sorry this took awhile to get to!

[marmastry]

A Team

Kofi

[zer0pm]

Imagine working your first night in the village tavern and serving a drink to a man you catch sitting by his lonesome. He accepts your kind gesture and engages you in conversation. You didn’t realize you were talking to Lord Heisenberg until it was too late.

“Got a tall one with your name on it.”

The silver-haired man simply glances up at you from his seat, bright eyes switching between your smiling face and the full mug you’ve placed in front of him. The bored expression he wore previously relaxes into that of mild intrigue.

“I didn’t order that,” he says, amusement in his deep voice.

You shrug casually, “It’s on the house.”

When he didn’t say anything right away, you proceeded to explain yourself. “Barkeep mentioned you haven’t ordered anything since you got here. I figured I could spot you a round. Hope you don’t find it rude.”

To your surprise, the man chuckles, returning your patient smile with a toothy grin. “Can’t tell if you’re brave or just straight-up fucking strange. But you are definitely interesting, I’ll give you that.”

You tilt your head curiously, unsure of what to make of his comment. Perhaps, this stranger is one of those lone wolf types that rarely engage in social interaction. However, that didn’t seem correct. He seemed more like the type that enjoyed talking, if not just to hear the sound of his own voice. He has such a distinctive voice too, you found, the rich baritone hitting strings inside you that sent shivering notes tingling down your spine. You shudder not out of fear or anxiety, but out of genuine fascination.

The stranger takes the mug you’ve put down for him in one of his hands, lifting it by the handle and bringing it to his lips before tipping his head back. It gave you an opportunity to look him over. As you suspected, he is large in build. Burly and robust but not overly ripped in muscular definition. He looked strong and undeniably imposing, shaped by hard, laborious work. You imagine that if he wasn’t holding the mug at its handle, he could wrap his thick, calloused digits around the cup with ease. The loose shirt he wore had the sleeves rolled up, exposing several wiry scars that adorn the back of his hands and forearms. They varied in length and size, barely faded by time, and matched the old wounds that ran across his rugged face.

Questions danced upon your tongue on how he got his scars, but you thought better of it and bit them down. He looked different from the other men you’ve seen in the village and had a unique air about him too, one that you would be able to immediately spot in a busy crowd. He was quite handsome, in a rough sort of way.

The man must have noticed you staring for when you brought your eyes back up to his, he was already looking right at you. His bright gaze remained locked onto you even as he sets the drink back down with a quenched sigh, a devilish tongue swipes the excess liquid from damp lips before withdrawing behind wolfish teeth. The ends of his mouth tugs upwards, putting his canines into full display. The damn man is smirking again and his eyes had a knowing, teasing gleam to them. Feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, you bowed your head to hide the embarrassment burning on your cheeks.

Suddenly feeling incredibly shy, you take a step back. “I-I’m going to see to my other patrons, then. If you need anything else, just-”

“What’s your name, buttercup?” He cuts you off. There is an edge to his tone, as if daring you to move from your spot before him.

Buttercup? He’s giving you a petname? Is it derogatory or is it a genuine term of endearment? Either way, it made your face burn hotter.

Overwhelmed with the need to answer him immediately, you gave the stranger your name without a second thought. He repeats it in a low, slow drawl as if testing and savoring the sound on his tongue. Your heart picks up speed and you spoke up again in a futile attempt to calm the rapid beating.

“What’s yours?”

Like flipping a switch, the air between you two suddenly shifts. The wide smirk he wore falters and his brows furrow. These few words seemed to have disarmed him as the grey-haired man beholds you with a piercing glare, searching your face for any signs that you are joking or something. You could do nothing but stare back, balancing on the balls of your feet nervously. When he found that you were sincere in your question, he grasps his bearded chin thoughtfully.

“Intriguing,” he comments, his expression deeply pensive. His reply didn’t relieve any of the tension you were feeling and you wondered if you somehow offended him for not knowing who he is. “Are you local?”

Unable to fathom where his line of questioning was heading, you decided that it was best to answer him honestly as you have been doing thus far. “Uhh, yes, of course. Born and raised. Although, I’m not from the immediate area, if that’s what you mean.”

A thick silver brow arches. “So, I take it you’re not the religious sort, then.”

You shake your head. There was no helping the guilt taking root inside you. Clearly this man thinks that his identity should be apparent to you. Thinking about it, he does look sort of familiar but you couldn’t quite place him. You wished then that you paid more attention to the people around you in the weekly sermons.

“Not really,” you rub the back of your neck sheepishly. “I rarely went to church. Not that I don’t follow the black faith, mind you. I just have other priorities. Life can be hard in the village, you know how it is.”

When he didn’t comment on this, you followed up with your own inquiry with the intention of making polite conversation. He mentioned religion, so…

“Are you a pastor?” That seemed like a logical thing to ask. But surely if he was leading the mass, you’d have remembered him right away. Maybe you simply missed each other in passing. You can’t shake the feeling that you do know him somewhere.

A bellowing laugh erupts from his throat. The man bends over on his seat, banging the wooden tabletop with a clenched fist as zealous humor consumed him. You didn’t notice that the rest of the tavern went completely quiet at his spontaneous outburst. When he finally sits back upright, he was in tears.

“Damn, you’re adorable!” He sighs deeply, his grin wide as he wipes the water from his eyes. “Do I look like the kind to give fucking sermons, buttercup?”

Again with the petname. You weren’t bothered by it this time. If anything, you took the lighthearted turn in the conversation as a good sign, pleased to see that the man looked like he was enjoying his time with you. Even at the expense of your embarrassment.

Deciding it best to play along, you returned his good humor with a playful smile of your own. “Looks can be deceiving.”

He scoffs, “Can say that again. Guess not everyone in Miranda’s herd is a sheep.”

You didn’t quite register that. “Excuse me?”

His hand waves off your question dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. You…”, the grey-haired man leans back against his chair, his lopsided smile bordered on teasing. “You get to call me Karl.”

A surprised hum escapes you, you didn’t expect a man so interesting to have such an ordinary name. Thankfully, he didn’t seem offended by the involuntary sound. Remembering you had a job to do, you throw him a courteous nod.

“Nice to meet you, Karl. I really should check on my other customers. Is there anything else I can get you?”

He casts you a playful look, “Are you on the menu?”

Although you were standing still, you nearly tripped over on the spot and tried to save face by quipping back. “Ha ha. Think you’re so smooth.”

Karl shrugs, reaching for the mug once more and inspecting the contents lazily. “I prefer to be rough. But no, I think this will do. For now.”

Your brain shut down after “rough” and you were quick to retreat back to the bar, ears turning red upon hearing his knowing chuckle as you created distance. So distracted by the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside you that you failed to realize that the usual hustle and bustle of the busy tavern was completely void of sound. A loud bang of what sounded like someone slamming their hand against the wood harshly is all that it took to bring life back into the room and the patrons returning to their own devices. This somehow went under your notice too. You did not regain your wits until the barkeep you were working with for the night snapped his fingers in front of your face.

“Oy! New blood! Didn’t I tell you not to bother that one?” he reproached you. Was that panic in his eyes?

You blink back at your distressed coworker. “If it’s about the free tankard, I’ll foot the lei. Everyone else looked like they were having a fine time besides him. That didn’t seem right to me.”

The frantic man shook his head fiercely, “Whether or not he is enjoying himself isn’t any of our business. He could very well be plotting his wrath upon this establishment for what you did!”

The excitement that was bubbling within you before is now replaced by confusion. “Why would Karl do that? Who is he?”

The barkeep’s face falls into that of pure shock. “Are you completely daft!? He’s-”

He chokes. Suddenly, his expression pales to an alarming shade of white. From the corner of your eye, you spot a large shadow looming and felt an imposing presence from your side.

You turn your head to see the man from before standing next to you. But this wasn’t the Karl that you spoke with earlier. He had the same face but wore more clothing- more distinct articles of clothing that made you freeze on the spot upon recognition. Afterall, who could ever miss the signature dirty trenchcoat, or the dark, round glasses, or the well-worn hat of Lord Heisenberg himself? Who dares not recognize one of the four nobles that rule over the village with an iron fist? Evidently you.

He didn’t meet your eyes right away, instead he had a deathly glare directed right at the barkeep who was now quivering in his boots. “Because I’m in a good mood,” the lord began, voice descended into a low growl, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear what you just called my new friend.” Lord Heisenberg then looks down at you behind black lenses, his demeanor shifting from threatening and terrifying to playful and pleasant.

His smile returns, seemingly wider than before, likely because he knows that you know who he is now. “Thanks for the drink, buttercup. I’ll see you real soon.” He pushes his shades down the bridge of his nose, winking at you before tipping his hat in an exaggerated head bow. With heavy footsteps, he takes his leave, not giving a second glance.

Your eyes followed him and lingered on the door he went through long after he left. There was a deafening silence. It filled the tavern for what seemed like an eternity before it was broken by the clanging of the metal tray you once held in your hands.

The lord of steel was here in the flesh. And you were talking to him so carelessly. And he was flirting with you so shamelessly. This was not how you expected your first day on the job to go. And he declared he intended to see you again.

You’re in deep trouble…

[qoppybirdie]

uhm hi. I don't want to bother you but could you pls draw some more mgsv Eli? I ADORE the way you draw him! The Liquid nation is STARVING for fanart of his baby self :( (its tots ok if you don't want to dw)

I have accumulated quite a few elis!! Bottom left one is treasure planet AU with Venom as John Silver.

Im happy you adore the way I draw him that means sm to me!!! His expressions and features are my favorite to draw… he is my favorite.

[spacebubblehomebase]

@alletalover Correct me if I'm wrong, but yours was the Ask I accidentally sent in "private", right? Unfortunately, I can never retrieve it again, but that's on Tumblr's archaic system. Though to repeat what I answered for those who may also benefit from it, NEVER apologize for your curiosity! I enjoy engaging with you guys and it shows your interest! ^v^ Also, yes. Radioapple is very much a thing in my AU alongside Chaggie. This is a Chaggie & Radioapple centric project which is why I gave it the plural name #HHStargazersAU as it pertains to BOTH Vaggie & Alastor watching over their respective MorningSTARS. It just so happens that Chaggie is already established (though I have plans for them still) despite Radioapple having met earlier than the girls did in my story. Mostly because they're emotionally constipated old men who are frankly quite shit at dealing with their emotions. So no. They're not yet dating in my AU. Honestly if I could skip the world building altogether just to focus on our ships, I would, but that undermines the whole point of making an AU when I could just as well post the same one shot fluffs I usually do and I also believe the dynamics I had in mind will suffer without it. Alas, heavy is the head that wears the crown and mine is too full of ideas to let you all down. Just hang in there, guys! Been busy with enrollment lately so it's been slow going, but I swear it's going! Wish me luck! -Bubbly💙

[rainintheevening]

Part I – Part II ... Part XVII – Part XVIII

They don't set out to become the kings of St. Maurice’s School for Boys, it just sort of happens.

Peter's not trying to be a king so much as be King Peter, not trying to lead so much as care for others, but it feels so natural to speak up, to step forward, to give orders and receive respect. He doesn't ask to be called ‘sir’, as the younger boys do when he scolds them, and he feels embarrassed when he hears other boys say, “Here comes His Majesty.” He's not the king of this school, he's not even Head Boy. He's just… Peter Pevensie. And yet, somehow, he knows he's High King Peter too, he remembers being that, and it lingers in his body and mind, sinew and soul altered in ways he cannot take back. He wouldn't take it back even if he could.

It's easier for Peter to see the little things in Edmund than himself: the way he laughs freer and brighter, even as he studies harder and deeper; the calmness with which he takes insults; the concern with which he addresses people in the wrong.

Peter finds himself instinctively turning toward the sounds of shouts and fists, finds himself leaping to either halt or join the altercations, depending on their nature. He's quick to see who's at a disadvantage, quick to pick a side if there's a clear one. Ed has similar tendencies, though he's sharper with his tongue, prefers to break up fights with some pointed words, and only the threat of fists, unless his brother is already embroiled.

Peter's ear seems specially tuned to his brother's voice, easily picking it out of any row, no matter how many boys may be shouting, and he is never surprised to discover Edmund at his side in the thick of it. They look after each other, guard each other's backs as much as possible, fight for each other when they must.

By the end of the winter term, they are both widely accepted leaders across the school, Peter on a level with Head Boy Wollers, and Ed as something similar among the lower forms, who consider him more accessible than Peter.

He picks out a pattern in the whispers: If you want protection, go to Peter; if you want clever ideas, go to Edmund. And it makes him smile, another echo of their kingship and the roles they'd taken while ruling from the Cair.

They stop bullies, and lift spirits, and it's all good, it's right, it's what Aslan would want, Peter's certain.

And then they go home.

Home for the Easter hols, home to Finchley for the first time since they left it in the autumn, when the bombing had only begun, and they sit silent on the train drawing them into London, dragging them out of the near-dream they suddenly know school to have been.

They have to change trains twice, because the lines are knocked out, and slow-rising tension crawls up Peter's spine, works knots into his shoulders.

It comes in flashes between the stretches of unspoiled land: the edge of a city bombed into jagged walls against pale sky, someone's kitchen gaping open to the air like a wound, a funeral procession down a country lane.

Closing in on London in the evening, the ragged grey look of everything increases, and silence settles in their compartment. They come into Tottenham Station minutes before blackout descends, and disembark into the brokenness of patched up walls, and boarded up windows. Their train is late, no one is waiting, they'll have to walk all the way up Tottenham Road to take the Tube from Euston. Even in the station their breath makes clouds before their faces.

Outside, the cab stand is empty, and they say nothing, hoisting trunks up to their shoulders, Edmund his shadow as he turns down the street. The edge of the heavy trunk digs into Peter's shoulder, it is deucedly hard to balance with his suitcase dangling from one hand, but he breathes, walks, one foot in front of the other.

It's hard to breathe, hard to see, they are walking through wounds, great gaping wounds bleeding fire and stone, city skin torn open to vital parts, and Peter does not know this London. He walks as if in a dream, slow and stunned, only the occasional knock of Edmund's arm against his reminding Peter he is in fact awake.

Halfway there, Edmund is forced to rest; he's smaller, not as strong as Peter, but his trunk weighs nearly the same.

Ed sits on his trunk, panting, and Peter says nothing, because there is nothing to say, just stretches his back, trying to stand tall, peering up into the blackout murk, searching for the sky.

Chilly, twilight air hangs heavy with smoke and dust, sharp, angry smells that send memories flickering through Peter's head like a faulty film reel at a picture—smoke above trees, smashed stone walls, reek of blood, red streaked down Rhindon's silver blade, giant's club smashing down on Edmund, shout burning in his throat, Erah's face coated in scarlet dried to rust, stern sorrow for destruction, Ed's pale but smiling face…

“Peter? Pete!” Tugging at his sleeve, and he starts, looks over into his little brother's worried eyes. “Are you alright?”

“It's wrong.” Peter waves a hand around them, ember broke to flame in his chest. An old woman limps past, head down, torch pointed at the ground to see her way. She doesn't even glance at them. “All wrong.”

And he reaches for Rhindon, but finds nothing, his hands are empty, he's in his school uniform not armour, he's a boy alone in the streets of London–

The air-raid sirens blare.

Fear gives them strength, and the world blurs until they tumble down the steps to the underground station, trunks and all.

Packed in with the hundreds of others sheltering there, they surrender the preferred positions on top of their trunks to older folk with bad knees, and huddle beside them on the cold concrete platform, Edmund pressed close enough for Peter to hear his whisper: “I wish we'd never come back.”

A little boy with a sticking plaster on his chin is squirming in an older girl’s arms, querulous with his need for the toilet, and an old milk bottle gets passed over.

Peter is trying not to breathe too deeply, the reek of the sweaty, fearful crowd nearly enough to make him gag. He doesn't know if Ed means back from school or back from Narnia, but he agrees with either.

“I hate bombs.” He rests his head against Ed's, sticks his nose into his brother's hair that still carries a hint of Yorkshire moor mist, closes his eyes. “Rather catapults, or even a dragon.”

The fire in Peter’s heart burns there, gnaws at his breastbone, his lungs. His hands keep clenching into fists, before the ache of his muscles catches his attention and he forces himself to relax.

The ground beneath them shivers, the lights flicker.

A baby cries, a dog whines, someone begins to sing, and Peter feels as if the concrete roof has already caved in on him, he is trapped, squeezed, he can't move, he can't do anything.

Oh, for a sword, an army, for Aslan! But Peter can't imagine the great Lion in all His beauty here, in this dingy foul smelling crowd. He closes his eyes again, wraps an arm tight around Ed.

Ed sings softly with the others: Abide with me, fast falls the eventide…

It's after 11 by the time they drag up the steps of their home, and no light escapes at any window, they cannot tell if anyone is even there. The girls have been delayed letting out thanks to a suspected case of the measles, and sometimes Mother works very late…

A light is on in the kitchen.

In the front hall, Ed drops down on his trunk, wordless, but Peter halts one step into the living room.

The fire in the hearth has burned down low, but there is enough light for him to see the woman lying across the sofa, still in her factory overall, so heavily asleep two boys blundering in with their luggage could not wake her.

Behind him Edmund starts to speak, but Peter turns, grabs Ed’s arm to tow him in his wake as he fumbles blindly into the kitchen.

He thinks his heart is breaking.

He sees the table set for three, supper gone cool, everything waiting for them, she must have fallen asleep waiting, and Peter… he thinks he's going to cry.

He doesn't.

His voice sounds odd and crackly as he tells Edmund, “Go and wake her gently. I'll reheat the soup.”

Peter comes awake in his own bed, sometime early morning, perhaps when he usually rises to go out to the stables, but he lies in complete darkness, listening to mother quietly moving about the kitchen, the door shutting behind her as she leaves to catch her bus to the factory…

And then he hears the air raid sirens very faint and far away, somewhere to the west, and he doesn't know why exactly but he is crying.

He rolls over to bury his face in his pillow, muffle the sobs, but they break out hard and fast, like the wild fire in his chest has become a bird beating its wings against his ribcage, and there is no escape, there is nothing he can do. He is nobody here, nothing, he doesn't count. He is small and trapped, and wild for open sky and the woods and the great moor rolling away and a fresh horse under him.

He thinks of the boy with the sticking plaster, the girl with the glasses, the great jagged wall that had once been a bakery! he suddenly remembered, with the most delicious cinnamon stickies one could imagine. And Mother, oh, Mum, it's not fair, you shouldn't have to work like this, it's all wrong, wrong!

He is weeping, broken open with a kind of hopeless fury for the pain around him, sobbing in the dark.

A patting hand finds his head, his shoulder, and Peter catches his breath, feels Edmund's weight dipping the mattress, a fumbling offer of comfort the way he knows Peter receives it best, and Peter… Peter cannot bear it, he flinches. Sob strangling in his throat, and he jerks back from the touch, curls away from the loving warmth of his brother, covers his mouth with a hand.

He does not want to be seen or heard, not like this, so wrecked and vulnerable, so weak and useless.

Hasty, fierce, he swallows the heaving, stamps out the fire, chokes down the tears, wrestling his body into a trembling, sniffling quietude.

“The only place you're useless is in the kitchen making tea.”

He stiffens at Edmund's hard-edged words, unbalanced by the wondering of how much he may have said aloud, or how much Ed might have guessed.

Edmund stands, moves away. “Come on, it's nearly six, and I'm starving—let's get breakfast.”

And then he's gone, creaking down the stairs, and Peter lies still, a few more tears making their way down the side of his face to the pillow. There is a cold space at his back, he is empty inside, hungry and weary in equal measure.

He does not understand. Any of this. Or so he tells the shadows.

He only understands that it hurts.

Next

[temper-temper]

Jetstream x Merlin

23 + 27

23. Do they like pick up lines?

Merlin totally tries all the cheesy lines he can think of on JetStream. She totally thinks it’s all very silly but loves them none the less! Merlin is a certified goofball so she knew what she was getting into haha Besides- JetStream does well with a goof by her side, helps her loosen up a bit.

27. Who would propose? What would their wedding be like? Merlin proposed during a trip to Ponyville while on shore leave. This is around the time when he’s getting close to retiring from his time in the military and the two already decided that they’d get married once he was out. It wasn’t anything too grand as that isn’t Stream’s speed. I like to think maybe after dinner they went for a walk right after a rain storm came through so everything was reflecting light in a pretty way and it was probably getting closer to sunset so once they found themselves in a nice looking spot (maybe on a bridge?) Merlin would pop the question.

As for wedding? No idea honestly- I figured if I brought Ask-JetStream back Merlin would still be her finance so I haven’t really given it much thought. I could see them doing something maybe renting out a barn? Have the party in the old barn and the ceremony in a neat field or something? No idea haha

[hayakawalove]

Asking sugu to get you pregnant… 👀

How would he react? <33 would he want his baby to have a baby or would he put this topic off…

HELLO so I actually. Don’t have this anywhere on my blog but. I have a phobia of pregnancy and birth KDNDKKDKFK SO I MAY NOT BE THE BEST PERSON TO ASK but I will do my best.

I think he would love to <33 provided you guys were in a good spot. He has such a strong maternal instinct that I think it would come easy to him. I think if it was like a breeding in the moment thing he’d find it hot but afterward it would fester in his brain like hold on…. Maybe we should KDJDKJFKDJDK but if it’s something you guys have talked about before I think he’d be very calm about it. He’d want you to be 100% sure it’s what you want. To me, Suguru seems like someone who would be fine having kids and who would be fine not having kids. I think in the end, he just needs someone to serve. That could be kids, but it could also just be you. He’d go to all the classes and read all the books. He’s smothering, so I think he’d hover the whole time. At first it’s cute but then it’s like dude step back…. JFNDOJFKDJFKD once the baby is born though he’d be even more intense. I think he loves the idea of being able to protect the two of you. You guys are his world

[putting-jonathan-byers-in-places]

put nancy and jonathan in the hunger games☺️

Giving you two cause first one looks like they’re just standing in the middle of a forest, so take Jonathan as the second district twelve tribute :]

[amongussexgif]

Hello,👋

I am Noor, a mother of three children from Gaza. The war has destroyed our home and our lives, and my children live in constant fear and deprivation. Every day is a struggle for survival.

I kindly ask you to share my story. Your help could restore our hope and open a new door to life for us.

Please, be our voice in this difficult time.

🙏���

[falmerbrook]

In that case, this new book from the PTS (the only one from the PTS that isn't incredibly spoiler heavy lol, I almost died reading other ones yesterday) does even more for the unreliable narrator thing!

This is yet another version of the myth of Trinimac and Boethiah, and is quite different, also applying Boethiah as a Prince who guides both orcs and Malacath, and not just a force that is malicious towards them. And also it has the girlboss club getting together to actually do the deed, with Malak and Malacath being separated, and Malacath being much closer to Trinimac than he is to Malak. It's beautiful, I love it, and it is against so many of the previous versions of the myth!

https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Online:From_Exile_to_Exodus

Ooooo cool! I'm glad to see another version of this myth. The original "Boethiah eats Trinimac" one tends to be treated as fact rather than mythology, so I always like we we get different versions from different cultures about the same stuff

And I also got a kick out of Azura, Boethiah, and Mephala's "you mess with one of us you mess with all of us" lol

[hermitblurbs]

A continuation of my Steampunk AU (7)!

Grian had grown to accept his weird attachment to Scar, if with a bit of hesitance. The other was good conversation in a town where everyone else was incredibly boring. It’s why he stuck around with broken machines so often; there’s nothing to predict about them.

Scar was fixed up, no sign of glitches like in N.P.C or Grumbot, and Grian couldn’t predict him if his life depended on it. Whatever AI in the bot’s brain was fascinating, and the strange logic it followed always managed to keep him enraptured.

It quelled that bored drawl in the back of his mind, on a good day.

Today, even with Scar by his side, seemed to crawl along at a slug’s pace.

The wastes were turning up useless scrap after useless scrap, Mumbo too busy with a commission to entertain him, even the ticking of his wings was the same as ever. They didn’t even ache. At least then, complaining or not, wouldn’t leave him bored.

If he’s being honest, he probably shouldn’t have gone out to scavenge.

Days like these are best kept in line by staying in a place with overarching rules, a guarantee he won’t overstep anything and end up missing more than a chunk of wing.

The wastes don’t have that. They have metal, radiation, rust, and scavengers.

“This is a lot further than we’ve travelled before,” remarks Scar, frayed gas mask making him seem bizarrely human, bizarrely out of place in one of mumbo’s white button up and a false corset. He knows by the whirl of Scar’s fans, that the green metal would be warm to the touch.

He climbs the hill anyway.

There’s the clanging of other scavengers, only two of them at the foot, and they’re pulling something out of a shaking pile that’s large and expensive.

“Ooh, a lucky find for those fellas!”

Grian says nothing in return.

His wings click. Once. Twice.

Take it from them.

He widens his stance, careful not to make a sound on copper and aluminum and iron.

Imagine how excited Mumbo will be.

His wings spread like butter across the sky.

And he jumps. Dives, towards the two.

What should’ve happened was a simple wrap of his hands around the machinery and an arc back into the air and away. What should’ve happened would have been enough to satiate his boredom. What should’ve happened, is that he should have been faster.

What did happen, is that he gets his hands curled around the machine. He’s on the upbeat of his wings, when a hand wraps around his ankle.

He registers the impact. He registers the stars. He registers how the metal crumples beneath him, denting and damaging the scrap.

And then he registers the pain of being slammed into the ground.

“What the fuck, you little asshat!” The nearest one sounds. Their mask is colored the same white as the gleam of a jawbone. They raise a foot and stomp on Grian’s hand, grinding it into the dry dirt with the heel.

He has half a mind to scan the hills for Scar, but the android is lost among the shadows and the piles of scrap encircling them. His heart sinks.

“Hey, dude!” Comes the second one—their mask is layered to look like a growing of fungus. “Take it easy, they’re already down.”

“Their mask is cool,” remarks the third, the one his missed and the one who grabbed him. Their mask is simple and plain, a stark contrast to his own, hooked in the shape of a beak. They’re dressed in dark browns, almost blended completely against the ground.

“That doesn’t matter, they tried to *steal* from us. Why I oughta—“ And they grab his wing.

Something in his mind goes a little haywire. The bones there are fragile, half-molded to metal and muscle, and he does his darnedest to bash their faces in with the prosthetic.

He manages to clip Shrooms across the temple, drawing his knife and lunging at another, but it doesn’t last long. It was never going to last long, three against one. But he gets some good hits in, spills enough blood.

He ends up fully pinned, a boot against his back and his racing heartbeat prominant in the pressure from a steady, constant pull of his wing in a scavenger’s hand.

“What’s going on here?” Comes a familiar voice, and Grian feels like crying. If they leave him alive, at least Scar can get him back to Mumbo.

“Are you with this vulture,” one of them spits.

“I am, and I promised he’s very much learned his lesson—“

“He sliced my arm open,” they growl. And yeah, he did do that. The drip of blood fills him with a cruel pride that they’re going to need to go home after this and waste the day away.

“You deserved it,” he calls back, and is rewarded with a particularly painful tug on his wing.

“Fellas, I promise you that if you let him go, you’ll never see us ever again. Heck, we’ll even leave you little things for yourself to improve profits! How’s that for a deal?”

“How about instead we slice his throat?” And he knows it’s a bluff. Killing someone over a single piece of scrap is ludicrous, and these guys don’t seem insane enough to do it to a first-time offender. They’re farther than typical from their bubble, and while Grian’s had his own fair share of death threats they’ve only ever been serious in total nowhere. It’s got to be a bluff. It has to be.

He’s going to die if it’s not.

Grian looks up, eyes following metal legs to Scar’s face to find the other staring directly at him.

He doesn’t know what Scar sees in him, but he hears his fan kick on just beneath the noise of the wastes.

The android steps forward, steps closer. Grian can’t tell a single thing about what he’s thinking, but he knows his neck is starting to ache from the angle he’s keeping it at to keep Scar in view. Something about the quiet won’t let him look away. Scar rears back a fist.

And then he hears the crack of bone.

The weight falls off his back, his wing, and Grian is left staring into empty space as Scar takes measured steps behind him, and out of view.

The impacts behind him begins to sound wet, like the repeated thump of a hammer against drowned wood.

Grian has dabbled a bit, long before he met Mumbo, in engineering himself. It was more buildings than robots, trains instead of anything that breathes. But there’s one thing he still remembers, clear as day.

A robot may not injure a human being.

So what does that make the thing in front of him?

[koco-coko]

2, 9, 12, and 14 for Jean?

done and done lets go:

2. Favorite canon thing about Jean:

He's so serious all the time and yet he is so naive. It's just... he's so stupid (affectionate). Especially considering he was so young when he died it just makes me wanna pinch his cheeks like an old auntie he's so rhsdksghdkfjghdsfhakh to me

9. Could you be roommates?

Probably. Jean doesn't have like,,, anything in his room, so it'd always be clean (in his areas). I'd definitely have to be the cook, though. I don't care if he improves I dont trust him (I am a bad cook as well)

12. What's a headcanon for this character?

(god what headcanons do I NOT have)

Jean cuts his hair himself and no one has the heart to tell him it's lopsided. And Jean can barely hold a kitchen knife you think he knows how or WHAT scissors are? Poor boy pulled a mulan and it's just been that way ever since. (and this leads into how jean is transmasc and why I'm right cybrid will NEVER silence me--)

(also he's probably autistic IM SORRY i had to get it out into the world) (yes this is mostly projection but the signs are there)

14. Name an aesthetic for this character

goth okay no I wouldn't say goth or emo but like... modern dark academia meets Victorian gothic style and have a kid that's having a sophisticated rebellious teen phase. That's probably Jean. I mean he literally only wears white in his soldier uniform and button up. Winter coats? black. Modern clothes? All black. Halloween costume? Black. His literal cape? "Navy" black

[fly-sky-high-bug-games]

Commission for @dreams-of-wind-and-void! Thank you again for giving me a chance to draw this fun little moment!

[goldenthreadstories]

@serandipity with a continuation!

Sora would lightly press a couple of their fingers to their forehead, running it over their forehead to feel for the cut, they hadn't even realised that yet. The flinch when they did run their fingers over the area, okay yep that hurt a little.

They should probably accept the help so they would look up to Mipha now with a soft nod and a smile. They had a fuzzy feeling of something they could do similar, maybe for others too or some other kind of magick.

"I-I'd appreciate it Mipha..thank you."

After the healing, Sora would do their best to stand now carefully a soft smile. A little bit of a wobble but they held out their hands to balance a few deep breaths and they were stood, not feeling like they could walk right away but still.

"I'm fuzzy...but I think I was running...from something...?"

[valenfield-inspo]

I'm really curious about what Capcom has planned for the all Re characters' endings. For example, I'd like to see old characters retire and their children become new characters. Especially Chris and Jill's children.

Hey there Nonnie, I used to be on the train of the next gen kids of the protagonists being the next set protagonists but given the characters' ages now, I don't see them having children of their own.

Don't get me wrong, I love playing around with headcanons/AUs of them having kids but canonically I don't see it happening. I think any dreams or even thoughts about having kids has been long sacrificed to continue their careers and their lives to fighting against bio-terrorism. I think they've seen way too much horrors that they wouldn't want to bring a child into it. The responsibility of their children's safety and constant worrying while they're away on a mission while their children are back at home. I think they wouldn't like not being around to raise their children b/c their careers are so demanding. I don't think they could just easily retire from it either. Like I'm sure they've had thoughts before like "Fuck it, this is never-ending, what's the point of doing this anymore?" but they can never sit back long and let it go. So they do the fighting so everyone else, which is the average civilian can live their lives. I can see them retiring from the front lines of battle when they're physically not able to do so anymore but they'd stay on as advisers or commanders off the field and stay at HQ. That kind of thing anyway. If any next gen kids take over imo it would be Sherry, Jake, Moira, and Rose. Not sure if Moira's younger sister Poly would join in or not. I'm not sure how Capcom would end some of these characters' journeys to be honest. I don't think it would be a total Disney happy ending but nothing too grimdark. 🤷

These are just my 2 cents anyways, I certainly don't speak for others and certainly not Capcom.

[cherubchoirs]

Hi there, cake :D

You don’t understand how long i wanted to ask you this, but how on earth did you get so good at drawing robots??? Like the way you draw v1 and v2 and sometimes other machines are just so ✨✨✨✨ Like i rly wanna try and get good at drawing machines but y’know,,, they’re hard :( So i was just wondering if you had tips or suggestions on how to get good at robots :]

Also, I would ask a million billion questions about your interpretations of the Ultrakill cast or the Fallen au, but everyone else stole the cool questions already ;u;

I just really enjoy your interpretation of both Gabriel and v1 ,,

-🌟

waauauuughghghgh thank you so much!!!! i will say upfront that i'm self-taught, so i might not have the best tips or the right technique, but i can tell you what works for me personally!! honestly i didn't really draw robots/machines like this before getting into ultrakill, with a lot of my art before this centered on human characters. but really, when you look at how v1/v2 are structured, they're not that different from humanoid anatomy, especially once you remove their wingpacks. so honestly? when i rough in v1/v2, i just rough in a regular human shape for the most part because that comes much more naturally to me as an artist. additionally, i don't try to make myself use sharp angles and hard lines - some artists are INCREDIBLE at making them look super machine-like and industrial with particular attention to their proper mechanics which i absolutely love aesthetically and greatly admire, but i'm no good at it! so i use much more organic lines and skirt the rules of how a robot would be able to move and bend. like if you look at a lot of my pieces closely, you can see that i'll bend their hands in a way that doesn't square with hard metal, or i have their arms positioned in a way their construction wouldn't seem to allow. so i think of them and draw them actually much more like an evangelion with flexible bodies and organic shapes.

and since visuals would help a lot here, i do have a couple older asks detailing how i draw the head and body for v1/v2 - i've changed my style a bit since then, but the steps are exactly the same as i draw them now! heads are here and bodies are here!