#the yellow fabric is based on his scarf! i hope it doesn’t look too out of place ;w;

[sensitiveseal]

eh, could you please make a stimboard of kazuhira miller from metal gear solid; the peace walker, please? ^ _ ^

i rlly enjoyed your stimboards of farcry characters,,

kazuhira miller stimboard for u!! i hope i did alright! i’m so glad u liked my far cry boards i hope u like this one too 🩶🩶🩶

x - x - x | x - x - x | x - x - x

[bump1nthen1ght]

Meet Cute (GN!Reader/Mothman)

Pairing: GenderNeutral!Reader/Male!Mothman

Genre: Cryptids

Warnings: Car accidents, descriptions of bruisings and pain

Word Count: 2564 words

Summary: After an incident, You find yourself in the care of a rather strange savior.

Request: Hey, long time fan, but I could never think of anything to request! I was wondering if cryptids were considered monsters here? Would you be willing to write a meet-cute with Mothman? Maybe something along the lines of them saving the reader from a disaster and sparks fly, and boy, if that's not a pun: like a moth to a flame. Mothman can be man or gender neutral, and I'd like the reader to be gender neutral! But everything is to your discretion! Have fun~! And thank you~!

He doesn’t usually do this.

As he cradles your neck, feeling the microfibers of human hair at the base of your skull and your thrumming heartbeat, it feels as if you could shatter apart in his talons. Your pupils flutter behind your eyelids, the pain of the collison definitely affecting you, even in your near-unconscious state. He sets you down on the scraps of thrown away jackets and ratty down-comforters, paying extra attention to your head and side, where splotches of purple and yellow already bloom up your ribcage. You easily fall into the warmth of the pile, snuggling into the fabric.

He sighs, anxiety decreasing as your body relaxes. Having already checked you, he thinks you should last a night before needing to go to a human hospital, just to double-check. He perches by you, tuning the ancient radio to a subtle night-time station, and waits.

Your chest flutters rhythmically, peacefully. Your features seem to shine in the firelight, catching the shadows and giving the appearance of a Baroque painting. So serene for someone just hit by a car.

He sighs.

He just hopes you won’t freak out.

-------

You wake up in a jerk, immediately filled with regret as your right side screams in pain. You clench your teeth, hand immediately checking your ribs as the memories of last night come flooding back.

You had been walking back home after a night out with your friends. You weren’t drunk, barely even tipsy, but had decided to walk the short path to your tiny house anyway. It was quick, just a 5 minute jaunt by the side of the highway and away from the bar. Just enough time for some asshole to swerve off the side of the road, send you flying, and take off without a care for the deer they assumed they just killed.

It takes a little while longer for you to process that you are definitely not in a hospital right now; Not even in your own house, or any house for that matter. A dying fire crackles nearby, the rising sun beams peaking through makeshift curtains attached to a structure of branches. You sit in a small pallet of fabric, right next to a collection of newspapers and old cctvs.

It’s ramshackle, sure, but well-loved. It doesn’t look like a permanent residence, but is lived-in nonetheless.

“Are you feeling alright?”

A calm tenor breaks the silence, causing you to shoot your eyes away from your surroundings and to focus on the person across from you.

Well, person probably isn’t the right word.

His eyes, even in the morning light, flash with red. They’re huge, set deeply into his face with very indistinguishable features. His neck is nestled into a large amount of fluff, reminiscent of winter scarf, that extends back into his large wings, which are tucked behind him. The antennas that flicker on top of his head are distinctly insect-like, but his long, muscular body and hands are more mammalian. Not human, but more similar to an animal. His hands are long and near-spindly, each finger ended with a long claw.

All these features should come together into an uncanny-valley, terror-inducing nightmare. But there’s something about his voice, the way he sits, so cautious yet concerned, that says the contrary.

“U-Uh...I think so.” You shift your body, a lightning bolt of pain shoots through your ribs and you wince. “I’ve felt better, though.” You tentatively lean down and touch your side, trying to check for a fracture without hurting yourself even more.

The creature stands up, wings still closed and kept to his back, and walks over to you.

“Would you mind if I checked your injuries? I have some experience with collisions such as yours.”

After a second, you nod. He steps closer to you, still moving at a micro-speed, and his hands slowly begin to wander up your side. You suck in a breath, but are more afraid of the potential pain than him. His slow, southern drawl reminds you of old movies and your grandpa, radiating comfort with almost every word. Plus, whatever he was, he had shown you more compassion than the human asshole who had hit you last night, so you felt a little more relaxed having him this close.

Nevertheless, he treats you gingerly, fingers just grazing your bruised side. You wince as his index finger finds a particularly dark bruise, and the creature quickly pulls back.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, it just-fuck that hurt.”

The creature nods but doesn’t move to touch you again.

“Does it hurt when you breathe deeply?”

You shake your head. You had been taking calming breaths to assuage the anxiety of waking up in what might be a monster’s den.

The monster hums, a light chittering sound, like several wind chimes all at once. He reaches over to a small, nearly-rotted, medicine bag in the corner and pulls out an ancient-looking jar of pain cream. He gingerly slides it towards you. “You may try this, it might relieve the pain for a while. Although you should probably see a human doctor to see if you’ve sustained any serious damage to your ribcage.”

You uncork the cream and tentatively dab a bit on your fingers, looking up with a  shaky smile to your savior.

“Uh, t-thank you. For everything-”

Growl

Your hand jerks to your stomach, face going flush as you accidentally brush against your swollen side. The creature perks up.

“I believe I have some human food. Would you like some?”

Sucking in a quick breath, trying to hide the tiny pain and your embarrassment, you nod.

The creature stands up, fumbling with the remains of a kitchen cabinet. From his hunched posture, you’d guess this tiny shelter isn’t big enough for his full height. With his long fingers, he reaches and flicks on the radio. The sounds of a local station’s jingle filters through the air as he grabs a can of beans from a shelf.

You slowly begin to rub in the medication to your side, occasionally looking up at your savior as he flutters around his den. Despite his extended limbs and large body, every movement is very similar to that of a human’s; He moves around the make-shift kitchen like a doting partner, a thought which brings a small blush to your face.

The illusion is shattered when he tears the top of the can clean off, cutting through the metal like a hot knife through butter. As he turns to rekindle the fire and start your breakfast, you quickly look back to your wound, trying to hide your curiosity.

The creature lazily stirs your breakfast as a song begins playing on the radio. The strumming bass is perfect for the morning haze, the low drawl of the singer rhythmic and relaxing. You notice the creature bobbing his head, humming along to the tune. His voice sounds slightly distorted, squeaking like the crackle of tv static. You find you quite like it.

The silence returns, filled only by the radio and the crackling fire. The creature's disposition is amicable, but you're still not sure how to initiate small talk.

“Um, thank you, again. For everything. You really saved my ass.”

The creature gestures with their hand as if to say “No problem.”

“I saw that man hit you with that car and take off. As you were hidden from the road, I thought it best I intervene.” The creature pulls off the now-cooked beans and grabs a spoon, handing the can to you. You take it eagerly, another rumble growling from your stomach. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were, foregoing all table manners to scarf down the breakfast.

“If I am being honest, I don’t typically interact with humans in such a….direct manner.”

“Ah, I guess that,” You eyes do another survey of his gangly, inhuman appearance, “makes sense.”

The creature nods, grabbing an apple before sitting across the fire from you. You can tell he is tense, probably waiting with baited breath for you to come to your senses and scream. There is a small part of you that wants too, desperately, but you silence it with a large mouthful of beans. The apple is tossed back and forth between the creatures hands, his eyes locked on the fire. The curiosity of how he eats things sneaks its way into your thought process. “Do you have a name?”

The creature perks, pausing it’s movements and looking at you with its large, red eyes.

“.....I’ve heard humans call me Mothman. I think it is quite accurate.”

You nod, swallowing down another bite of beans. “Do you...like that name?”

The creature doesn’t respond, eyes still piercing into your heart. His face has a small micro-expression, but you’re not sure you can read it. “Because my brother always said first impressions are the perfect time to reinvent yourself, so I could call you something else if you wanted?”

The creature's eyes flicker, in a movement you think is slight shock, before his eyes roll back to the fire. The small light of the fire flatters the dark black of his fur (You think it’s fur?) and only accentuate his large eyes, flashing and reflecting like rubies. In his relaxed position, he sort of looks….handsome.

“You may call me Mothman. Thank you for asking.”

You nod, letting the strumming banjo of a new song on the radio fill the void. The bouncy beat has you unconsciously bobbing your head as you scoop a spoonful.

“I love this song.” You mutter, lamenting how you're almost out of food to stuff your mouth with.

Mothman hums in agreement. “Me as well, this station is my favorite.”

Given your empty bean can, you take the leap into a conversation.

“Do you have a favorite kind of music genre?”

Mothman fiddles with the stem of his apple, brow (if it can even be called that) furrowing.

“I guess I never thought of what my favorite would be. I mostly listen to whatever the radio plays, enjoyable or not. Though,” Mothman points his thumb to the radio, “I love the sound this instrument makes, though I am unsure what it is called. It’s almost like….”

Mothman’s voice begins to make a squeaking trill, one extremely similar to that of plucked strings, although much sharper and shorter.

“Oh, you mean the banjo? Uh, the one that goes like-” You try your best to imitate the chords of the banjo, unconsciously moving your fingers to imitate playing. It’s not nearly as musical as Mothmans’, but his eyes widen and he nods excitedly.

“Yes! Yes, that sound is very pleasant. I’d say any music with that in it is my favorite.”

“Ah, country, that’s a really popular one around here. Have you ever heard ‘Goodbye Earl’ by The Chicks?”

Mothman shakes his head. Your face drops in surprise.

“Oh, it’s so good, it’s about-” As you lean over to give a long spiel about the song, another bolt of pain shoots up your side, forcing you to bite your cheek so as to not cry out. You keel over your legs, clutching your rib cage.

Right, car accident.

In a second, Mothman is next to you, tentatively laying a hand on your shoulder. His fingertips just barely brush your skin, yet you can still feel a slight fuzziness, the same that covers his whole body.

“You might want to see a human doctor, soon.” You suck in through your teeth, slowly adjusting yourself back upwards. “Yeah, yeah, that’s probably a smart idea.

“I can take you as far as the end of the highway, if you’d like to call a friend or a cab.”

You nod, not trusting your voice to stay steady. Mothman’s other hand slowly moves to your other hip, only applying a modicum of pressure.

“May I help you stand up?” He almost-whispers, a hot breath of air blowing across the side of your neck as he speaks. A shiver runs down your spine as his large fingers play gently against your skin, covering a good portion of your pelvis. You’re thankful you can explain away any blush with the pain. You nod once more.

The two of you stand up gingerly, Mothman almost extending to his full height and brushing the blanket-ceiling with his antennae. You take a couple of small steps, the pain in your side taking the occasional moment to sting you.

Your eyes squint as you exit the encampment, sun already fully risen and in your face.

“If at any point you feel uncomfortable or in pain, let me know.”

You turn your head towards Mothman, but before you can ask any questions he sweeps you up in a bridal carry and extends his wings in one motion. From the corner of your eyes you can see dark red patterns that swirl on them, invisible until caught by the sunlight. Your hands instinctively lace around his neck, fingers tucking into the soft fluff of his neck. Mothman gives you a quick nod and what you think is an assuring smile

Without a word, you two take off.

----------

You two fly low to the ground, Mothman expertly maneuvering through the trees and underbrush as he glides along the highway. You’re sure if you were to drive by, he’d look like a flickering shadow in the woods, nothing more.

He sets you down by the edge of town, just out of sight of the semi-busy main street. You basically collapse to your feet, heart pounding with adrenaline and mind wracked with “Holy fuck, I just flew with the goddamn Mothman.”

“This is where I must depart. Do you think you can find suitable transportation to the hospital from here?”

You nod, still trying to wrestle your vocabulary from ‘What the fuck, Holy shit, Oh my god.’

Mothman gives you another smile and comforting nod, patting you on the shoulder.

“Very good. Good luck on your travels. Oh, and try not to be hit by any cars, alright?”

With a playful glare from you, Mothman begins to unfurl his wings and ready himself to fly back into the woods, buut before he can-

“Wait! Uh….” Mothman halts, wings still wide open. Your mouth and mind stagger, not even sure what you wanted to say. “I have some old country cassettes back at my place. If I found my mom’s old WalkMan I could….show them to you? Some time, maybe? Give you a chance to be your own radio DJ?”

Mothman’s face remains relatively neutral, but the way his antennae unfurl and his wings slightly perk upwards betrays his interest. It’s extremely adorable, like a little kid who hears the word ‘ice cream.’

“Yes, I think I would love that.”

“A-Awesome.” You breath out, not realizing how long you had held it in. “Same place, maybe next Saturday? Though hopefully I won’t be thrown in there by a car this time.”

Mothman lets out a series of squeaks, which you assume is his laugh. He gives you a thumbs up. “Cool, it’s a date.”

With the last word, you walk away, still hobbling with your probably-fractured rib, a large smile on your face.

As Mothman flies away, the cold wind of a West Virginia morning blowing across his body, he can’t deny the certain warmth that radiates from his chest.

I have a date.

[crystalsexarch]

Two: Aberrant - E

“I’m going to die.”

“You’re what?”

-

Explicit. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. After the events of Shadowbringers, the Exarch ponders his strange new relationship with the Warrior of Light. Sometimes he asks questions with his body.

Also on AO3.

Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge

When they fuck, they don’t talk as much as they used to, Bas’ir and G’raha. Many nights, G’raha wonders if that means they oughn’t fuck at all.

The Warrior will come home to the Tower, gloves dusted with blood and eyes heavy. He walks like a rumble in the earth, a lumbering threat or sleepwalking beast. As he shirks himself of scarf and coat, boots and socks, he might grumble or sigh, grunt in greeting. Until he reaches the bed, though, he keeps the firearm at his side. His stomach for banter—left almost always at the Dossal Gate.

This new Bas’ir, sullen and thinking, makes G’raha feel smaller. Delicate. Uncertain. There’s an old apology growing stale at the base of his throat, a green thing with ugly poison flowers. No matter how many times he clips it down, the roots remain tangled with something he has thus far failed to cough up completely. He knows there are plants that can thrive in darkness. If he’s watering this one, he doesn’t mean to. He has tended better gardens, and he ought to know better.

This night, Bas’ir showers alone. He’s gone for about a bell. G’raha is reading in bed when the Keeper finally emerges from the washroom holding a towel up to his chest. Both his hand of flesh and hand of metal are folded where the fabric comes together. Even now, weeks after their lukewarm reconciliation, it’s rare for Bas’ir to move about without his prosthetic until the very moment he means to sleep.

“Welcome back,” G’raha says. His hand tenses around the spine of his book.

“My head is aching.” Bas’ir runs his fingers through the sheet of wet hair at his back. Shoulder-length, around this time. He’s been trying to grow it out since he cut the bulk of it off upon his arrival on the First.

G’raha shuts the book and sets it on the nightstand. “Shall I write you a prescription?”

“Use your magic to dry my hair.” Still clutching the towel, Bas'ir patters over to the side of the bed and sits himself down. G’raha doesn’t have to see the pout to know it’s there. That some things never change is a palpable relief. Little does Bas’ir know—

“Very well.” It takes hardly any energy at all to cast a spell of wind over the Warrior. Though Bas’ir bristles, he doesn’t squeak or yelp. The rush dries the Keeper easily, but not necessarily in a way he would find agreeable. G’raha sets his crystal fingers over his lips to quell his own budding laughter.

Bas’ir slowly turns over his shoulder. For a moment, there’s a spark of sinister delight in his yellow eyes—the hallmark of a man plotting petty, light-hearted revenge—but it fades quickly. Instead, Bas’ir falls back onto G’raha’s lap with a mighty sigh. “I suppose there’s no point in styling it, when it’s doomed to be a bloody mess on the morrow anyway.”

“Perhaps not.” G’raha sets his fingers on Bas’ir’s collarbone and rubs gently. The Keeper would never have expressed such a sentiment back in Sharlayan. This is what exhaustion looks like, the kind that permeates body and soul. “If it makes you happy, though…”

“I do not see the work paying off in any meaningful way.” Bas'ir fiddles with the towel and twists his lips. "I would not be opposed to a brushing, though."

The Exarch brushes Bas'ir's hair. Together they are quiet, even as tension rings loudly in G'raha's ears. Is there anything he can do besides completing these rituals? He wonders if the glide of comb through silver-blue is too simple a remedy for so complex a problem.

Not much is said before the two are settling beneath the covers, naked, warm, and close. In turn, the lights of the Tower dim to a hardly spoken glow. Bas’ir always removes his prosthetic before he sleeps, but it remains attached for now. By that, G’raha knows they are going to have another night of emotionally complicated sex.

“I’m going to die,” Bas’ir says at G’raha’s neck.

“You’re what?” The Seeker turns over his shoulder.

“I said I’m going to dye it. My hair.” Bas’ir has both arms wrapped around G’raha’s chest. Their legs are intertwined and shuffling against one another. “I’m tired of silver.”

G’raha is still blinking out the shock. “Back to true blue?”

“I suppose. Or blacker. Do you have a preference?”

The first smile of the darkness arrives quietly on the Exarch’s lips. “How considerate.”

Bas’ir shuffles at his back and grunts. A way of saying well?

“My preference is you,” G’raha says. “I don’t care what color you wear—nor what color you call yourself, for that matter.”

“Is that what they called me in your future? Did they call me Blue?”

G’raha swallows. Your future. “They...they called you Bas’ir. But I’d rather not dwell on those days.”

Bas’ir speaks no more. Not for a while. In the silence, G’raha thinks about the sharp little ego he wielded as a youth. It’s been whittled down to a blunt, misshapen thing for better or worse. But that change allows him to understand that once, some centuries ago, he thought to himself—Bas’ir loves me more than I love him. And he isn’t sure that’s true anymore. He isn't sure whether it matters.

As it happens, G’raha is the one who gets hard first. He finds Bas’ir’s right hand and slides it down his torso. Enough to suggest, to proposition. It’s an offer Bas’ir accepts. The Keeper adjusts so he can get a good grip on his oldest friend and soon begins jerking him off from behind, growing closer and closer to breaking the silence with an aching proposition of his own.

“I can feel you,” G’raha says. No clarity needed. The erection pressed against his ass speaks for itself. Bas’ir offers a blind whimper in return and swipes his thumb over the Exarch’s slit, wet with precum. It’s not good enough for G’raha, who rears back to tempt him further. “Have me,” he says. “Take me tonight. I want you.”

And you want me, too, don’t you? Bas’ir?

But Bas’ir can’t answer questions he isn’t asked. He does take his hand off G’raha’s cock long enough to point at the nightstand and whisper a command. Oil is retrieved. Fingers are inserted. One man is left wanting even as he gets what he wants. And the other’s desires? Unknowable to the Crystal Exarch, even in his Tower.

G’raha comes with a mouth full of pillow the moment Bas’ir settles inside of him. The Seeker's mismatched hands form twitching claws against the mattress as his seed collects beneath his body.

“Raha?” Bas’ir says, holding the position, then holding his breath.

“Yes, yes, I’m—” He jerks forward and back by the ilm, fucking himself on Bas’ir’s cock. “I was more pent up than I...than I knew.” He hopes Bas’ir likes what he sees. He hopes Bas’ir can feel each muscle squeezing with want. G’raha pities himself, and the pity is comfortable. The pity feels almost like the right apology. But it isn't enough.

Bas’ir kisses the back of G’raha’s neck and pulls him back to a sideways position. Fucking like that is easy, lazy, but far too quiet still. G’raha listens carefully for whispers hidden between his partner’s moans. If there are words they aren’t filled in with color. They aren’t written in a language G’raha recognizes.

When Bas'ir is close. G'raha knows it by the teeth on his neck and the clench of metal at his hip. Soon, Bas’ir rolls the Exarch to nearly his front, going deeper, deeper. The head of G'raha's cock presses against what he's spilled onto the mattress already. He winces, but in the next moment new wants, new desires replace his unsteady thought. He wants to have his arms around Bas'ir's neck. He wants to kiss him, tell him everything is fine, or that it's okay to feel otherwise. He wants to understand what he couldn’t in Sharlayan, and most of all in the moment—he wants to feel Bas'ir spilling all he can offer. He wants to feel wanted again!

"Please," the Exarch begs, one eye shut tight. "Please."

Bas'ir delivers. Once then twice. The first time, he hisses and leaks at G’raha’s deepest point, nails digging into skin where they aren’t scraping against crystal. Instead of collapsing, Bas’ir heaves himself almost entirely off the bed to fuck G’raha from an animalistic squatting position. That’s how he comes the second time, after a frenzy of new sounds—tearful groans punctuating the silence over the sting of slick skin on skin, the rock of bed frame to wall.

G’raha comes a second time, too, when he realizes Bas’ir wants to try for another orgasm. But G'raha's comes quietly. He’s so focused on putting on a pleasant show, he hardly notices the drip of white from his slit until he’s reeling in the rapturous afterglow. Ultimately, the miqo’te tire around the same time...but neither is quick to move in any meaningful way.

How many times did G’raha fuck Bas’ir, back in those days before burden? Too many times, perhaps. Or not enough. Their needs have changed over the years, over decades in G’raha’s case. While he could count his past five partners on one crystalline hand, he isn’t sure where Bas’ir stands or what other options the Warrior of Light might have available. These days are as terrifying as they are fruitful, but G’raha fears he may have poisoned the fruit.

"I want you," Bas'ir says. Did G’raha voice some question, after all? Or have they known each other for so long that some questions needn’t be voiced in the first place? "I want you slowly. My...heart cannot take too much at once.”

“Bas’ir…”

“Call me weak, and I will still crawl back into your bed a night from now. And the night after that." He pulls out and tucks his chin against his shoulder, gasping. Cum drips from G’raha’s hole to his inner thigh, slow like quiet crying. A few heartbeats more and Bas’ir has caught his breath. “I will always crawl back.”

The diction is dark, and the ache is abundant. But to hear those words—I want you—maybe that’s all the Exarch needs to know for sure. Want is a promise. Want is a fertile patch of land. Perhaps this plant also grows in darkness and takes a great many seasons to blossom.

[thebifrostgiant]

If You Know Where to Look - Part 15

Summary: in which Loki finally catches a break

Part 1 / Previous

Read on Ao3

Word Count: 3,652

Rating: T (for now)

Pairing: Loki/Reader

*

Chapter 15: Every Cloud

Loki runs his fingers over the row of books on the grey metal shelf, reading the spines with a tipped head and passing over almost all of them. Every now and again, one will seem like it has the smallest chance of potential, and with hope as tenacious as a frayed thread, he adds it to the pile he and In-Hvassa have got going on a small round table in a corner nearby, where the girl sits in a very uncomfortable looking, boxy, chair with ratty blue fabric stretched over a pitiful cushion. Roughly every minute or two, Loki can hear the creak of the wooden frame as she shifts, trying and failing to keep a comfortable position in her spine. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse than his crouched form trying to glimpse the bottom-shelf books, shifting sideways over the length of the aisle, his knees beginning to feel stiff.

They’ve been in and out of the library so many times this past week that the librarian, an elderly woman called Edith, greets them by name when they enter — although she keeps mistakenly calling him Luke — and lets them browse as long as they need, take home mountains of books even though, technically, they’re only supposed to be able to check out six each at a time. She’d been all too happy to help them get a head start on their “school project,” even if it turned out to be a slow and tedious, miserable process for them.

There’s a quiet snick as a page turns, another restless groan of rickety wood, an actual groan, albeit a very low-volumed one.

Loki stands up, ignoring the clicking of his kneecaps and one hip as he makes his way back down the aisle to the table to deposit one lonely little book.

“Switch?” In-Hvassa asks, hopeful, and Loki finds himself nodding.

She rises and gives him a tired nod of thanks as she passes him to search anew down the next aisle.

Loki opens the book and begins skimming it, fighting back a yawn. It’s late. It’s been a long day. Soon, the library will close and they’ll have to bring the books back to the inn and do their research there, but while it is still business hours, they might as well take advantage of the opportunity to look for books and read through them simultaneously. Unfortunately, the only take away Loki has yet to find from all of this is simply that Midgardians are dreadful writers.

It takes several chapters for Loki to even notice that he’d picked a book that is complete fiction, not at all based in any helpful reality, and he shuts it with a snap louder than perhaps necessary and leans as far back in the chair as he can, which isn’t far with its too straight back and his long legs. If he stretches them out too far, he’ll probably tip the damn thing over.

He glances at the book In-Hvassa had been reading, still open where she’d left off, and he picks it up and begins reading it too. It’s a compendium to what must pass as magic on this realm, and unlike the other gimmicky guides and handbooks for shoddy tricks and illusions, it seems to contain information that may indeed be practical. There’s a two page spread on runes, and a whole, albeit abridged, chapter dedicated to plants and their many uses as healing agents, spell enhancers, or even poisons. Unfortunately, he cannot find anything relating to transport spells or elf magic, or charms that hide and mask one’s presence.

That sense of hopeless despair, which is becoming far too familiar as of late, is creeping back up, sweeping across his tired mind like mist over a field, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as if that might help in fighting it back.

There’s a soft patter on the table and the crackle of the plastic coating Midgardians seem to favor for their books. Before Loki can manage to drag his head out of his hands, In-Hvassa shifts closer to him and, with a hand both cautious and compassionate, pats his lightly on the back.

He smiles at her, a bit sheepish, all he can manage in his weariness, and she has a similar, crooked and wretched look on her face. It’s a bleak solidarity, but there’s not much to be done about it besides plod onward, as thrice-damned as it feels.

“I promise I’m not falling asleep here,” Loki says, sotto voce. “The minuscule text and massive volume of words is, however, beginning to strain my eyes.”

It’s not entirely a lie, not really, although his head’s been hurting for the better part of the last hour, and he’d read a thousand books with even smaller lettering if only they’d be useful to him. To them both.

She leans down next to him, and scoops the books back up into her arms. She even snatches the one he’s reading out from under him, but he doesn’t protest. He just gathers his bag and follows her to the check-out counter, where Edith scans their books and tells them the date they’re due to be returned. In-Hvassa adds the books to his bag and they make their way out into the chilly air, smoky and blue in the early night. Loki thinks it’s quite lovely, and the passing breeze over his face is refreshing, the cool tang of autumn in his nose and lungs easing some of the tension from his body and waking him up. But In-Hvassa tucks her scarf tighter around her neck and shoves her hands into her pockets to keep her fingers out of the worst of it.

He turns to head back to the inn, but she catches his arm.

“I... I don’t want to go back there just yet,” she says quietly, breath swirling white in the low light of the Midgardian streets. She doesn’t quite meet his eyes, doesn’t quite keep the slight tremor out of her voice.

She’s scared.

She still has the knife, and Loki knows she knows how to use it, but the man who keeps watching her is still in residence at the inn, still unwilling to do much other than regard her with a worryingly hard to interpret look, too interested, too blank. He has not said anything. He has not approached either her or Loki himself, but the ever-present stare of his —neither stopped nor incited by Loki glaring in retaliation, nor In-Hvassa catching the man in the act — leaves a sour taste in Loki’s throat, a frustrating, persistent suspicion and a perturbation that clings like a burr. It sets his teeth on edge, not knowing what to expect, what to guard against, only the slowly mounting certainty that something is not quite right.

He does not blame her for being afraid. His hackles are raised enough as is, knowing he’d be remiss if he were not wary, were lax in his duty as a prince to protect the one other from his realm, one of his own, who is only here because of him in the first place. And, too, he does not want to see her get hurt.

He remembers. Even now, as the yellow glow of Midgard’s street lamps catches on her face, he recalls the rivulets of blood that had been so conspicuously flowing out of that same face, staining her dress, her hands, his hands as he’d healed her. The memory does some funny things to his gut, like someone is wringing his insides out like a wet towel. It had been bad enough then, the cold dread and horror of knowing why she’d done it like a blade itself, only one that did not leave so distinct a trail. And he had hated her, hated her because she’d hated him, lashed out because her fear had stung him fiercely, like fingers prodding too close to an open wound. Even then, he had not wanted her to suffer, not like that, anyway. Now... now he remembers her little pained whimper, the terror welling in her eyes as she’d stared at her own blood-slicked hands, and it tugs at something in his chest.

“Did you have somewhere else in mind?” he asks, eyes drifting to where her fingers are still clutching too tight at the dark sleeve of his jacket, unnoticed in her anxiousness, and doubtless because of it. He finds, though, that he does not mind terribly.

“No,” she looks away, lip bitten between her teeth as she looks around at the shops and restaurants in the corner of this town, with their colorfully lit signs and wide glass windows spilling soft light across the walkways in front of them. “Just... somewhere else.”

“Alright,” he says, not very loudly. Truth be told, he doesn’t want to go back to the inn just yet either, despite his tiredness. He doesn’t think he’d sleep anyway, and trying to read one more book seems about as appealing as a good clip in the head from Mjölnir.

Somehow, they find their way to a sparsely inhabited Café, where the scent of warm coffee hits Loki’s nose, along with some sweeter undertones, and the red brick interior with dim lights and wooden tabletops feels cozy. He’s still got a few small bills and a handful of coins in his pocket, money that they had not yet spent, that he was halfway holding onto just in case they needed it for something. Perhaps this is it, he muses, a reward for their diligence and a distraction all in one.

He asks the worker behind the counter for something hot and sweet, and the young woman smiles pleasantly and suggests hot chocolate, which is certainly not a beverage served in Asgard. He smiles back, too tired for real mischief, but on a whim, he orders two, hoping her recommendation is worth anything. She asks if he’d like whipped cream on them, which is strange. He is used to eating cream with berries, or made into butter to spread on loaves of bread, but never served on top of a drink. He glances at In-Hvassa, who just shrugs, and decides to indulge his curiosity. Even if it turns out terrible, it still could not be as bad as more tedious book-searching, or the trepidation of being watched like prey waiting for the falcon to strike.

He pays the girl, and she busies herself making their hot chocolates, grabbing paper cups and filling them up under machines that make soft humming noises. She shoves plastic lids on top and hands the drinks over the counter with another smile that seems completely genuine, shining from her freckled face.

Loki, not for the first time, is warmed by the kindness of strangers on this strange planet, warmed that these mortal little people would impart that easy amiability on him, who they do not see as a prince or a sorcerer or a warrior, or any such golden and formidable title that would hold sway and prestige in Asgard. He does not have to be any of these things here, because here, where he is just another passing body, as insignificant as all the rest, he is still worthy of such courtesy and grace. He can be, just as such, without the strain of pretense and obligation and the bitter resignation of duty hanging over his head, without the measuring stick of his brother’s shadow to constantly fall short of. True, Midgardians are simple people, but that same simplicity is freeing in its own way.

They take their cups to a table in a back corner, secluded but not cut off entirely, and Loki takes the lid off of his to let it cool; the steam from the machines behind the counter leave him with no doubt about the scalding nature of the hot chocolate. But he does cautiously bring it to his lips, just enough to sip at the fluffy white whipped cream at the top. It’s good. Airy, rich, and quite sweet.

In-Hvassa sighs, but not in a bad way, hands curled around her drink like she’s soaking up the warmth from it, eyes flickering shut as she holds the cup to her nose and inhales the scent. She takes a sip and her face lights up like the sun breaching a storm cloud, eyes going wide in surprised delight.

“Oh!” she says. “I like this.” She looks at him expectantly.

He rolls his eyes but brings the cup to his lips anyway. The hot chocolate is... not great. Sweet, for sure, almost cloyingly so, and bitter underneath, in an astringent, earthy way that sort of reminds him of honeyed dirt.

“It’s good,” he lies, with a straight face and as even a voice as he can manage.

But she laughs, some long-held tension melting from her shoulders like dew in summer.

“You hate it,” she accuses with no heat, that light still in her eyes.

“I do not.” But his cheeks twitch at the corners, betraying his words.

“Don’t lie to me, Loki,” she says, a gentle tease that causes him to wince nonetheless.

He doesn’t reply. He takes another sip, swallowing back the off-putting liquid and an equally biting retort. He glances around at the few other patrons, sitting and chatting amicably, or quietly reading.

“Sorry,” she says, sincere despite the hesitation, like she’s not even sure where she’d tread wrong.

The words are just loud enough to not be lost in the soft swell of music playing, pleasing plucked strings and vocals imparting an easy sort of merriment. It’s buoying, and Loki cannot find it in him to truly be upset. He nods, still a bit to thick in the throat to speak.

They’re quiet for a long time, just drinking, and despite the foul taste of what passes for a delicacy on Midgard, it’s... not wholly unpleasant. The weight of everything, of figuring out this impossible fucking task, of searching endlessly for something that doesn’t exist to figure out a situation beyond fathom, feels like it’s been set aside for the time, like he doesn’t have to carry it while they’re sitting out of the wind in the corner of the little shop and this nowhere town. He lets his eyes fall shut, just enjoying it like a withered plant soaks up the first rain after an extended bought of dryness, content to let it rest just for now. He’ll pick it back up when he has to, but one moment to soothe his spirit isn’t too much to ask.

“Did you ever expect... anything like this?” In-Hvassa asks.

Her voice eases him out of his musings, and he opens his eyes to give her a very sober half-smile.

“Never,” he says mildly.

“Yeah,” she agrees, eyes drifting as her thoughts wander as well. There’s something sardonic, and something conspiratorial, in the sharp grin she fixes on him. “Present company is the biggest surprise, actually.”

Loki raises an eyebrow, feigning eminence. It is no hardship for him to assume the role of lofty royalty.

“You should be honored.”

“Who says I’m not?” she challenges back, very serious.

“Are you?” he asks as if it is of no consequence.

She can’t quite keep her face set, eyes crinkling at the corners tellingly.

“Perhaps,” she says into her cup, drinking from it to hide the blooming smile.

Loki hums, drumming his fingers on the table to the rhythm of the beats of the song in the background, the picture of indifference. It’s an obvious bluff, even for him, but, well, he’s still better at this than she is, clearly. He smirks.

“Pithy and vague.” He allows a note of approval to color his words. “If not myself and my admittedly charming company,” he says, droll sarcasm at odds with the wink he sends her, “who would you pick to join your misadventure on this misbegotten planet?”

“Oh, it’s not Midgard’s fault Bǫlverkr is a prick,” she says, and Loki almost lets loose a surprised laugh at her jaded frankness. “This realm is cute, and you know it.” He offers no denial. In-Hvassa leans back, considering. “My brother,” she answers finally. “We always did get ourselves up to the knees in trouble we couldn’t handle. But we handled it.”

“You have a brother?” Loki asks, conversationally. “I would’ve pinned you as an only child.”

She shrugs. “You’d be wrong. One brother, same as you.” Then she tips her head, squinting at him a little. “You remind me of him, actually.”

Both his eyebrows go up. That was... very nearly a compliment, by extrapolation.

“You should be honored,” she says, the counterstroke accompanied by an almost viciously satisfied smile.

He tips his still mostly full cup at her in acknowledgment.

“You’re nothing like my brother.” He snorts. Nothing at all.

“Indeed?”

“Do take it as a compliment. It was meant to be one.” he says at her uncertain expression, like she doesn’t know what to make of it. He’d thought it was obvious.

“What’s wrong with Prince Thor?” she asks, brows drawn in contemplation. Prince Thor, he internally mocks, more amused than vexed. His brother’s shining reputation always did precede him, and there are traces of awe in her voice even through the level tone. “He seemed nice when I spoke with him.”

He looks up sharply.

“You’ve spoken to him?”

Something flashes across her face, a brief widening of her eyes that’s gone quickly. Too quickly. Anyone besides Loki wouldn’t have been able to place it, but as it is, he does know a thing or two about lies.

“Just once,” she says, radiating innocence. “It was a short conversation, I suppose, not really anything meaningful.”

“I see,” says Loki, deciding to accept what he has just been so generously offered. He folds his hands together over the table and crosses his ankles with that selfsame casualness. “And what did you and he have to discuss, I wonder?”

“I’m sure it’s not of any interest to you,” she says a shade too quickly. Interestingly, she’s a good liar. She meets his eyes steadily, doesn’t fidget or shift or cough uncomfortably. If this wasn’t so fun, he’d let her out of the snare, just on principle. But, oh, it is fun.

“Try me,” he presses, laying enough intensity in it so she knows that he’s not fooled in the slightest.

She does look away then, mouth curling sullenly. And once that fades, the guilty swallow, the too-tight grip on her cup follow.

“Fine,” she says, annoyance masking sheepishness. “I overheard a conversation of his, and he, ah, admonished me.”

“You mean you were eavesdropping.”

And how fortunate for him that she has that particular tendency, he muses.

“Yes,” she grits out, almost angry.

That is... unexpected. He certainly had not been rebuking her. But there’s a tightness of her face, something anxious in the way she licks her lips and stubbornly stares at a discolored mark on the tabletop. And he sees then that she is worried, because she does not want him to be angry with her. It is quite unwarranted. He is nothing of the sort.

“And that made you think Thor is nice?” He is careful to keep anything but pure, idle curiosity out of his voice.

She looks up warily, searching his face for something she won’t find, still expecting him to lash out at her. Which is not unwarranted. But that particular inclination of his is dormant with no signs of waking.

“Well,” she starts, and then frowns, bemusedly. “He was not mean to me, but I suppose that is not why, precisely. It was more... how he spoke to-“ and again, she’s revealing too much by trying not to reveal it. But this time she realizes it, and relents. “-you, actually.” She chews at her lip. “And I suppose you know what conversation that was.”

He does. There’s only one point it could have been, when he’d spoken to his brother and she could have feasibly been in the vicinity.

“And mother-henning is, what, endearing to you?” And he honestly cannot wrap his head around that one. Thor could truly be overbearing at the best of times and supercilious at the rest.

“Of course not. Nobody enjoys being condescended to.” That spark in her seems to be back, no longer doused by the undercurrent of dread. “But he means well, does he not?” It’s rhetorical, daring him to object, because she, without a doubt’s shadow, knows what she’s talking about.

“He does,” Loki concedes, because that’s one thing that he has ever been certain of, and one thing he cannot resent. “Your brother is also older.”

In-Hvassa nods, even though he didn’t need the confirmation.

“Older, unduly protective, harasses me relentlessly,” she says, and then smiles fondly. “But I wouldn’t trade him for the world.”

No, Loki thinks with a pang, he would not trade Thor, not even for his life. He actually misses the stupid oaf, arrogance and all.

Then Loki lets a smile fill his face, quite smug.

“Well. I suppose I am honored,” he remarks far more lightly than his expression would suggest, “if I am so much like him.”

He watches raptly as her countenance doubles back, doing an absolutely fascinating dance of confusion, realization, embarrassment, denial, and then amusement.

“I take it back,” she quips, lips quirking. “You don’t remind me of him, you remind me of my dog.”

“Now that,” Loki says, “is impertinent.”

“Is it?” She raises her eyebrows. “Even if he’s a good boy?”

“Is he?” he asks, fighting a laugh.

“Not at all.”

Loki does laugh then, because, well, he cannot deny that.

Part 16

__________________________________________

*feel free to ask to tag/untag*

@steve-rogcrs @ps-ghost

[nom-the-skel]

[vore] Inkbunny

I conceived of this with fell wolves and swap bunnies, but I wanted to change it up a bit, and I had been asked to write something with Ink. As you probably know, Ink belongs to comyet and Error belongs to loverofpiggies!

2.1k words - soft safe willing and unwilling vore - [read on AO3]

There was something wrong with this bunny. The most obvious thing was that its bones were pitch black. No. On closer inspection, its skull was black but some of its other bones were a distinctly unappetizing shade of red, and its distal phalanges seemed to be yellow. Its ears and tail were a deep blue. But the most off-putting thing, even more than its bizarre coloring, was that it didn’t seem like it quite existed in space correctly, as if the fabric of space-time were trying to reject it and only succeeding in tiny fits and spurts.

Sans teleported next to it and grabbed it by the ears, his usual hunting strategy. It yelped and struggled, and Sans turned it around to get a look at its face. It only looked stranger from the front: yellow eyes, yellow teeth, something blue leaking from its sockets and running down its face. Was it crying?

“Hey there, don’t get upset,” he said. Not many bunnies were happy to be caught, but an instant cascade of tears seemed like a bit much.

“How are you doing that?!” the bunny demanded, pressing its hands to the sides of its skull. It felt upward and found its ears, and its eyes shrank to pinpricks of shock.

“Doing what?”

“You’re levitating me somehow!” The bunny let go of its ears and patted itself down, as if it thought Sans might have surreptitiously attached some invisible wires to it.

“I’ve got you by the ears?” Sans explained dubiously, one of his own ears drooping. Most bunnies were not unfamiliar with this concept.

“I don’t have ears!” the bunny snarled.

“Then whaddaya call—Wait, are you tryin’ to manipulate me into lettin’ go of your ears? Sorry, pal, I’m not gonna let ya go.”

“I told you I don’t have—” The bunny reached up and felt the base of its ears. “Why do I have ears?”

Sans was tempted to just eat him, in case his odd behavior was part of some elaborate escape attempt, but he couldn’t resist keeping him around a little longer for the entertainment value. “Maybe because you’re a bunny,” he suggested.

“I’m not a bunny!” The bunny seemed deeply offended.

“Then how come you’ve got long ears and a fluffy tail?”

“I don’t!”

“Okay then. It seems like we’re at an impasse so I’m just gonna eat ya.”

“What?! Why would you do that?”

“’Cause … I’m a wolf?”

The bunny looked him over. “Well, clearly. It’s not like I’ve never seen a wolf Sans before. But none of them tried to eat me!”

“I dunno why not. You’re pretty weird but you still smell tasty.” Leaving aside the question of what the bunny meant by ‘a wolf Sans’—so far as he knew, there weren’t any other wolves named Sans—he could understand why a wolf might steer clear of this particular bunny. Papyrus would probably tell him to leave the bunny alone, and that it wouldn’t be healthy. Somehow that just made him want to eat it more.

He raised the bunny and opened his jaws. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait!” The bunny was furious. On closer inspection, the blue stuff on its face wasn’t tears. Sans wasn’t sure what it was.

“You’re gonna have to come to grips with your own bunnyhood,” Sans told it, and lowered it into his mouth, ignoring its protests, careful not to let go of its ears until it was pressed between his jaws. For all he knew, this was one of those bunnies that could teleport. Hopefully it wouldn’t glitch right out of his mouth.

“Aaah! Don’t touch me! Ew!” The bunny’s complaints grew more desperate as he slurped up its ears. He rolled it around with his tongue a little just to show it he wouldn’t be bossed around by a rabbit, then gulped. Some blue string had gotten wrapped around his arm—perhaps a stray thread from his jacket—he pulled it off and started home. That was the least weird thing about the encounter, really.

***

Sans was relaxing at home on the couch, ignoring the intermittent fits of the strange black bunny. It must have deep magic reserves, to still be so active.

The door banged open and Papyrus’s familiar voice filled the house. “—fascinating! I’m so glad to have met you!”

Sans sat up to see who his brother was talking to. Papyrus had turned to close the door behind him, his scarf trailing majestically but his tail wagging too hard to preserve the effect. As he turned again to walk toward his brother, Sans saw he was holding a bunny—not by the ears but sitting in the crook of his arm, apparently happy to be there. Sans’s ears folded back in consternation.

Papyrus continued without missing a beat. “I’m still going to have to feed you to Sans, though; I hope you don’t mind!”

“Oh! Right! That’s pretty terrifying!” the bunny said, cheerfully. It looked toward Sans, and he realized it was almost as weird as the bunny he’d caught earlier. Its bones were white, at least, but its ears were rainbow, red at the roots cycling to blue at the tips. On closer inspection, its eyes were different colors, as well. It blinked and they changed to a new set of mismatched colors.

“I caught you a bunny, Sans!” Papyrus announced, picking it up by its rainbow ears and holding it out to him.

“Thanks, bro.” Sans accepted the bunny, letting it sit in his hands, since it didn’t seem inclined to run away. “Sure it ain’t poison or anything?”

“You’re not poisonous, are you?” Papyrus asked the bunny.

“I don’t think so!” it answered.

It smelled good enough, so he stretched his jaws wide. He wasn’t going to turn down a bunny.

“Wow, your tongue is all blue! Not gonna introduce yourself or anything first? Just gonna eat me right away?”

Sans paused. Most of the bunnies around here seemed to know him at least by reputation. “All right. Nice to meet ya. Name’s Sans.”

“You can call me Ink!”

“I’d rather just call you lunch.”

“Sans, be polite!” Papyrus admonished.

“You always say to just get on with it,” Sans argued. Papyrus wasn’t a fan of tormenting bunnies, and a lot of bunnies just didn’t like to interact with wolves at all.

Papyrus’s ears folded back. “Yes, but—”

“It’s fine!” the bunny interrupted. “Papyrus already told me about you on the way here. It’s just so exciting!”

Sans shrugged. If the bunny didn’t mind, so much the better. He lowered his jaws around its skull, pushing its ears back with his teeth.

“Wait! Wait a second, please.”

Sans withdrew. “Yeah?” he asked, not entirely hiding his impatience.

“Can we do this feet-first? So I can see what’s going on? I’ve never done anything like this before!”

“Sure.” Sans tilted the bunny until it lay back on his hands, let it slide forward until its feet hit his tongue. It didn’t react, so he slid his tongue under its legs and took it deeper into his mouth.

“Wow, your teeth are kinda pointy for a Sans,” the bunny giggled as he swallowed its legs.

There was that phrase again. ‘A Sans.’ The two odd bunnies showing up on the same day couldn’t be unrelated. Sans would have asked about it except his mouth was full. So instead he closed his jaws over the bunny and swallowed it, slurping up its long brown scarf.

***

Inside the wolf was very tight and blue, then after a while not so tight. Ink could feel the magic being very slowly drained out of him. That was scary. He should be scared—but there was no one in here to see anyway.

Or so he’d thought. “Error! What are you doing in here?”

“Whaddaya think?” Error snapped, pressing against the blue ectoplasm to keep his distance even as the wolf’s stomach tried to force them together. “What are those?” He stared at the top of Ink’s head.

“Bunny ears! Don’t you—you do! You have them too!” Error’s were hard to see against the blue ectoplasm surrounding him, but unmistakable now that Ink thought to look for them.

“Why is everyone saying that? I’m not a bunny!” Error was drooping and panting a bit under the magic drain.

“You clearly are. What a peculiar world. I guess everyone has to be a bunny or a wolf here.”

Error grumbled unintelligibly.

“Wish you had been a wolf instead so you could eat me?” Ink grinned.

The stomach shifted around them and he practically fell on Error.

“Don’t touch me!” Error pushed him, not having enough space to scramble away.

“The wolf is touching you,” Ink pointed out.

“That’s not—I can’t—I know it is!” Error kept Ink at his distance with one foot and tried to push the dripping blue ectoplasm away with the rest of his limbs. It was futile. “We—I have to get out of here.”

“How’re you gonna do that?”

“I’m not—This is a weird universe. But I’m not going to die in here.”

“Aren’t you?” Ink sat back to watch. Error had a head start, so whatever the magic drain did to him, it ought to be over sooner than it was for Ink.

***

“Good morning, bunnies,” said Sans. He’d licked them off while they were unconscious and was lying on his stomach with the rabbits held cuddled up against his chest.

“Oh! I’m alive!” Ink hopped out of his grasp.

“Of course you are. I thought Papyrus told you how this works?”

“He did! You’re wolves and you in particular need to absorb bunnies’ magic to keep your HP up. An interesting concept.”

“Yeah but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna kill ya.”

“What a nice surprise!” Ink walked over to the black bunny and shook him. “Hey, Error, wake up!”

“I said!” Error uncurled in a flash. “Don’t touch me!” He moved away from Ink, inadvertently pressing himself against Sans’s shoulder.

“Hi, bunny.” Sans held still and waited for him to notice.

Error gasped and scrambled away over Sans’s arm. He might have jumped off the couch, except at that moment Papyrus appeared, wearing an apron and carrying a tray.

“Good morning, bunnies! You’re probably hungry!”

“Oh no. I’m good,” Error declined, climbing onto Sans’s back and attempting to escape over the back of the couch, but not making it.

His tail waving excitedly, Papyrus lowered the tray far enough that the bunnies could see what was on it. Raw, chopped vegetables, the same thing he always made for bunnies if they wanted to stay for breakfast. Ink hopped directly onto the tray and helped himself.

“Bro, I think you left out something when you explained the process to Ink there,” Sans said, sitting up to watch the bunny eat. He plucked Error from the back of the couch, which he was still trying to climb, and held him in his hands, but he squirmed loose and disappeared somewhere. Sans didn’t mention that he hadn’t bothered to explain anything to the other bunny.

“What’s that, Sans?”

“He thought that was gonna be the end of him.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, bunny. I thought you knew! All the bunnies around here know. I didn’t realize that in light of the other gaps in your knowledge, you might be missing such an important fact! But then why didn’t you fight harder?”

“I guess vegetables taste better when you’re a bunny, right?” Ink seemed distracted.

Papyrus’s ears tilted awkwardly. “In any case, I apologize! For making the whole thing needlessly scary.”

“Oh! Yes, scary. It was terrifying!” Ink agreed, picking up a slice of cucumber. “I think I’ll be deathly afraid of wolves now.”

***

Error had managed to escape that awful world with what remained of his magic reserves. He found himself in a nearby world. It couldn’t be worse than that.

He ran a hand over his skull, smoothing down his ears.

Wait, ears?

“Hi, bunny. You look lost.” The voice sounded like a Sans, and not displeased to come across a bunny at a disadvantage.

He looked up to see the Sans towering over him, ears perked with interest, tail waving lazily behind him.

“Oh great. Another wolf Sans.”

“Hey pal.” The Sans was insulted. “I’m not a wolf. I’m a fox.”

[cate-geo]

Emerald 4XC

(I stole @drawbauchery​‘s and @certified-kindergartner​‘s ocs and made a better intro for my gemsona, since the first fic for her was more Peridot based and only had her for 2 seconds.

Warning: Bit abusivey and angsty, so I wouldn’t read if you aren’t in the right mind set. Otherwise, enjoy)

Emerald 4XC was a good gem. She was like most gems she knew. She respected the diamonds, especially her own, Yellow diamond. She did her jobs and her missions; she hung out with her friends and would help them if they needed it. She just wanted to follow the law, do her purpose, and be the best gem she could.

Being an Era 2 gem, she wasn’t respected as much as Era 1 Emeralds were. She knew that some Emeralds could be pilots or even captains, but she was usually just needed to run the math for each of the new technologies being made. She didn’t mind though. She was made to not mind. She was naturally good at the math given to her and it meant she usually got to work with engineer gems, who were nerdy like her, or work alone, which meant she could focus more.

She ended befriending everyone she meant, but her closer friends ended up being Peridots. It wasn’t that surprising, they worked together a lot and since both gems were about middle class green gems, their resting pods tended to not be far from one another.

She envied their limb enhancers, but not the reason that they needed them. Unless you were an aristocratic gem, smaller gems were hardly respected. Em wasn’t even that tall, maybe just barely taller than a Pearl, and she had got into trouble with different Quartzes before, and she knew it would be worse if she was smaller. Height didn’t exactly equal class, but it was definitely easier to pick on a ruby than it would be to pick on an Amethyst.

So instead of complaining, she clung to her clip and appreciated it. All she had to do was turn in on and it illuminated a screen to look like a clipboard. It wasn’t too different form Limb Enhancer screens; she just couldn’t fly with it.

But she could scan with it.

Which is exactly what she did when she saw one of her friends was being held captive by an Amethyst.

The scan completed and read off the gems basic info. Amethyst 8XA. She knew that cut of Amethyst. She had a reputation for really liking Peridots. Some of her friends really didn’t think she was much of anything, some of her friends that she was DEFINITELY much of anything. But the short description threw her off.

*Has 11 restraining orders from Peridot 5XG

“Jesus. 11? How do you get 11?” She looked back at the two of them, and that was definitely 5XG. Looking more and more uncomfortable by the minute.

5XG was a really good friend. Em liked her because she usually, like Em, wanted to actually get work done, while other Peridots seemed to want to hang out more than work. It must be because they both were forehead gems and valued intellect over anything else.

Emerald took a deep breath and walked over to the two of them. There was no way she could fight an Amethyst, but maybe she would listen to reason. As much as she doubted that, she didn’t want to leave a friend in danger. She couldn’t.

Peridot noticed her first, and although the look on her face was still filled to the brim with fear, there was a teeny glimmer of hope in her eye.

Emerald took a deep breath and reached up to tap the Amethyst on her shoulder, suddenly the noticing the height difference, she took a step back but tried to stand up tall. She looked her up and down; she could see why Z liked her. But that wasn’t important right now.

“What?!”

“According to Diamond Law, you seem to have 11 restra-“

“Those restraining orders are fucking stupid.” Emerald hated being cut off “She just lets this uptight Zircon talk nonsense to her and she believes her and overreacts. But some reason we keep running into each other so it must be fate.” 8XA turned around, which made Peridot stop trying to escape and freeze. “You think it’s fate, right?”

“It’s not exact-you look up where my missions are gonna be and find me.”

“So maybe I have to create fate every now and again. Isn’t that romantic?”

“Romantic or not” Emerald tried to force herself back into the conversation “these restraining orders have not been overturned. Even if Peri…dot 5XG was overreacting, you legally cannot be within 5000 feet of her. I don’t care if you make a plea to the court or whatever, but right now you are disrespecting the Diamonds by breaking the law.” She felt good. She felt like a good friend. A good gem. She expected for 8XA to roll her eyes and walk away, since she so expertly got her into an intellectual corner. She quickly realized when she was grabbed by the collar and lifted off the ground that accepting intellectual defeat was not how most Quartzes worked.

“Obviously, since there’s elEVen, I’ve stopped caring about the law long ago.” Emerald pulled her screen in front of her face and pressed a button to activate a shield before 8XA’s fist made contact with her nose.

Frustrated with her hand throbbing, 8XA threw her onto a wall as rough as she could, making Em have to force herself not to retreat into her gem, afraid what would happen to her and Peri if she wasn’t conscious.

She couldn’t quite focus on what was happening, but Emerald saw a green glow blur fly past 8XA and then the sound of an explosion somewhere to the right of her. She heard the two of them yelling at each other, but couldn’t focus on the words, and then a loud bang, like a fist hitting the wall, and then loud footsteps walking away. Soon Peridot’s face was in front of Emerald’s.

“Hey. Are you ok? I’m so sorry you made to deal with her. She’s…a lot. Do you need to retreat?”

Emerald shook her head, then nodded, then shrugged.

“Go ahead. She’s gone. I’ll take you back to your pod.”

Em nodded and glowed before her gem fell into her friend’s hands.

She came back a few hours later to Peridots 5XJ, 5XB, and 5XZ, staring at her, their faces instantly flooding with relief. Behind them, she saw 5XG talking with a…blue zircon? Why blue? Before she could question it, the two of them stopped talking and Zircon walked over to her.

“Hi, I’m the Zircon who has been handling the Peridot 5XG vs. Amethyst 8XA case. Well…cases. Are you alright?”

Emerald nodded and then realized she should prove it by speaking “Yeah. I’m fine. Just a bit shaken up.” She went to hold her chest when she felt a fabric that wasn’t there before. A see through scarf over her shirt that covered most of her torso.

“Well, as long as you’re ok with it, we could use you as a witness and victim for 8XA’s…“ Zircon sighed “12th? Is it the 12th one already? Oh dear. 8XA’s 12th restraining order. It’s mostly just paperwork at this point. The courts are getting fed up having to have the same case over and over again.”

“Sure. Of course.”

“Wonderful. I will be back later. Please rest here. You may be fully regenerated, but that kind of trauma doesn’t just go away while you’re inside your gem.”

“Alright.”

“Good I’ll be back shortly” And Zircon left.

Emerald wasn’t exactly sure how to stop her own trauma. She glanced up at 5XG and saw how broken she looked. “You ok Peri?”

“It’s worse when other people get in the crossfire. I’ll never get used to having to deal with her, but…at least it’s just me. Now I’m getting you hurt too, just because I won’t say yes.”

“Peri…” Em was unsure what she should say. She could say a million things, but instead she just wrapped her arms around Peridot, not really noticing her tense up before she calmed down and lean into the hug. “We’re the smartest gems there are, we’ll think of something.” She watched Peri’s lips slowly curve up and just sat with her until Zircon got back.

(I can’t believe I wrote TWO fanfics in one night. (Although technically it’s tomorrow, but whatever))

[harrish6]

Healing What Has Been Broken - Chapter 5 - Safe

I am also sorry I made a few of you cry, but the hurt has not stopped just yet. Having said that there will be torture, self-harm, and suicide attempts mentioned and depicted in this chapter and/or other ones. I just wanted to give everyone a warning if that is a trigger for any of you.

-Chapter Start-

Destiny had a hard decision to make once it let Error go. Where would they lead him too once the Void gave in?

To get help, they first must admit that they need help to heal. For that to happen the person would need a reason to get better or to find help. And so Destiny must lead to where Error could find his reason. A reason to live. Error needs all this and more Destiny knew. It could cry at what Fate has done to him.

But what kind of reason? Romance would not happen at this point, he does not believe that he has the right to that. And a enemy or rival would not end so well, not when he has no will to live any longer. But maybe something to fight for? But what? So Destiny must go with a different option....But what left is there?

And then it struck Destiny on who to lead him to after thinking back on how Error acted back in the other Multiverse. After that it would be up to him, but after watching him so long Destiny knew that it would be the best choice. So finally for the first time, Destiny started to weave the many paths of destiny for the one known as Error as the Void finally gave way.

Destiny watched happily as Error fell to the snow below, not too far away from the ones she is hoping will find him, hoping and praying that they had not lead him astray.

-With Error-

When Error felt the cold and pain, he thought it was just how being scattered across time and space felt like. He figured being broken apart can't feel all too great after all and it's not like he could ask anyone how it felt. The muffled noise and the crunching of snow quickly clued him in that this was not the case.

After a few moments of silence, Error almost could fool himself that this was all a hallucination caused from dying, that or some sort of twisted purgatory for all the deaths he has caused. Death never did like him, he can still see him carving new scars on his bones with that scythe of his and only grinning when he didn't die immediately like other humans or Monsters would, then pushing down harder-

And then when a cold small bony hand poked his check softly, that clued him in that this was not the Void or this being a hallucination, but it could still be purgatory so that was still in the running. And if he was wrong then he wanted to know why the hell little Monsters were in the Void and if this was the after life he hopes that he wasn't the one to have killed them. Or if this wasn't the Void or afterlife then he wanted to know where the hell he was and/or what AU he was in.

'But I'm still hoping for afterlife....' Error mentally face palmed. 'But knowing my luck it isn't....I never get what I want! So why should this be any different?'

So he slowly opened his sockets, pushing past the pain to face what he has fallen into. He could only pray that this wasn't a trick by Fate or Ink for giving up.

-A Few Minutes Before-

Project One, a little skeleton Monster, had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he had to keep his baby bones little brother, Project Two, safe. He had no idea where he was going, only that he had to get away from H I M. shivering in his stripped rags, One willed his feet to go fast through the freezing snow.

He would hide and run until his legs were gone, as long as there was no more pain! All those tests and experiments were too much for him to handle, let alone his new brother. So he waited until the moment was right then struck. When his back was turned, One grabbed Two and ran for it. But He had connections, more then One thought he did. One ran past the Hotlands, past Waterfall and somehow ended up in the cold Snowdin. Cuddling a shivering Two closer, One took in a deep breath only to freeze up in terror.

From the sounds of metal, One realized that the royal guard was looking for them and close by.

Hearing the guards that may or may not be looking for them, One ducked down and around to hide behind one of the unused houses in Snowdin. Looking around the building One froze when the sound of static reached his ears. Taking a gulp, One turned around only to flinch back in shock.

Another Skeleton Monster was laying down in the snow. And after taking a hesitant step forward, One could see that it was a very hurt skeleton Monster by the marrow turning the snow red. Watching wearily, One got closer to only have his sockets widen in awe and horror.

He had never seen a Monster like this one before, not that he has seen many close up, and one that was a adult yet so hurt. Scratches and scars littered his arms, legs and skull from what he can see. And seeing how some lead up and down his shirt, scarf, and shorts One could safely bet they were all over his body. Add in the dark coloring of black and bright red and yellow with words on him, One almost thought that this was another escaped experiment.

Figuring that the Monster could do him and Two no harm, One took in a deep breath a lightly poked the others cheek. There was no way he could leave one who has been through worse then him alone and weak. One better warn him about the guards before he has to run. The next thing One knew was that he was looking into multicolored eyes, ones he has never seen before and couldn't help but admire. 'What kind of Monster is this guy?'

When Error saw the little Sans and Papyrus, one a baby and the other looking no older then three but Error knew that he couldn't base height on age, he wanted to curse out loud but held it back. He must have landed in a young AU. The reason it was Young was because how far developed it was. Newer ones began when the barrier was first out up. And if it was one above ground it began after the war stopped. After that it was up to what the choices and decisions they make that will form the AU.

Error went after newer ones because he had no intention to kill children and babies. He rather them develop further and fight a grown Sans or Papyrus then kill off some children. It was bad enough that he had to kill off the usual kids and human child, he didn't want to add others to the screaming list and his nightmares. And when he did have to kill off the children, he fired his blasters above the whole town so he doesn't have to hear or see their SOUL's shatter.

And taking in the ragged and dirty clothing, he could tell it was one of the AU's were either Gaster is not very nice, or it was one where Gaster has yet to take them in. No one knows for sure what Gaster role was in Undertale, not even the universe itself, so Ink made up a bunch of different theories and let his creativity take it's course. And while he could not force them to take a role, he could play with the code to make each one a little different then the other. Some Gaster's were nice fathers or brothers, others were evil, some even were lovers to Sans instead of being related.

In the end, it just made Error hate Ink all the more.

"HeY KiD....." Big eyes blinked down at him that only got wider once he started speaking. "WhAT aRE YoU dOInG HErE?"

One was not expecting the voice that did to come out of the others mouth. But he pushed his shock away as the cold swept through him. "I....I saw you.....Guards...." Was all the little one could get out before both baby bones shivered harshly with a cough.

"UWWAH~" The little baby cried out, orange tears starting to form, bones shaking from the cold and hunger. The other child started quickly rocking the smaller one, holding him tight trying to hush him. All Error could do was watch them both numbly, not really believing that this was happening to him.

'Royal guards are here? Well, I think I know what kind of AU I'm in now.....But I can't let them see me. A unusual Monster they have never seen or heard from would cause more problems then I need right now. It may get back to Ink or the others that I am here.' Watching them both just stand there shivering, Error finally heaved a sigh. 'My life would be so much easier if I was just the evil insane destroyer of worlds that Ink made me out to be.....'

One flinched back as the taller Monster shifted up, bones creaking and cracking making more marrow run down as wounds reopened. Finally sitting up, the Monster undid his scarf. One could only blink in shock when the fluffy looking scarf was draped around him and Two. The soft fabric brought forth a warmth One had never felt before. A shaking, scared black hand slowly fixed the long scarf around the both of them, making Two quiet down and tears stop.

"ThERe YoU GO.....iT LOokS BeTTeR ON YoU TWo tHEn iT diD mE." One looked up at the injured Monster in disbelief. What reason did this Monster give this to them? What did he want in return? Before he could question the other, the taller Monster shifted so that he was leaning on a nearby tree to stay up. "YOU sHOuLD lEaVE KId....FiND sOMEwHErE sAFE tO sTAy. YOU doN'T wAnT tO bE WItH ThIS OlD BAg oF bRokEn BoNES."

'Safe?' One had never been safe before, not in the labs and not with Him. But looking at the taller one, the one who gave him and his brother something to keep warm, his SOUL pulsed with warmth The only time it had done that was when he was with Two alone. He knows the definition of the word, but never experienced it. But looking up and into those different eyes surrounded by cracks and chips, One knew this Monster was safe no matter what he said.

He had given him and Two soft warmth, something they have never had before, and has yet to hurt them. But what also made him trust this weird colored Monster was that he was the same as him. He has been hurt worse then him, broken and left for dead by the looks of it. The only difference is that he is alone while One has Two. If this Monster was a normal citizen, One would have never trusted him. But now.....could he?

Hearing the crunching of snow and talking not too far away, One made his choice.

Error glitched and sockets widened when all of a sudden the little Sans shot up and under his shirt with Papyrus still in his hold. 'What is this little brat doing!?' Pain flared up his bone as they shifted under his shirt, accidentally hitting some of the more tender wounds. Taking in a deep breath, Error lifted his shirt a bit to look down inside. The little one was now curled up inside his ribs, not touching the ones that were broken luckily, cuddling the scarf and the baby for warmth. "WhAt aRE YoU dOInG KId?" Error had no energy to get mad right now, he just wanted to know what kind of fever dream he was having right now. "i TOLd YoU tO gO SomEWhErE sAFe-"

Error stilled when a little hand grabbed onto his least damaged rib. Big eyes looked up at him under the red scarf, gleaming with determination and something Error had never seen before. He then said something that made Error's SOUL freeze. "Safe."

He wanted to laugh at how wrong this baby bones was. Error, killer of many worlds and universes, was not at all safe! His hands and SOUL was forever stained and dusty, he should not be touching something so innocent. Sooner or later they would get hurt because of him. Error tried to calm his shaking and glitching as he his gaze went blank. "HeH, KiD I'M NOt sAFE...."

"Safe!" Error groaned at that admittedly adorable glare and pout directed up at him before letting the matter drop. He was too tired to deal with this right now. He would deal with it after some sleep. Maybe by the time he wakes up the two would be gone having finally gotten tired of him. "fINe! YOU cAn stAy ThERe...."

One gave the taller one a big smile, like the ones he saw the doctors give one another when something went their way before settling back into the ribs. As he listened to the slow pulsing of the others magic and SOUL, his sockets slowly slide shut as Two finally fell into sleep. Before he went to sleep, One felt arms wrapping around the two if them, keeping them secure. 'So this is what being safe is like?....I like it.'

'What am I to do now?' Error closed his sockets, letting a little bit of his magic swirl around all three to keep them warm. He had to admit it was nice to hold something that wasn't trying to kill him, but he knew he had to leave this AU eventually. Once this AU is older, Ink is for sure to check it out as he does with the others to see how it formed. Then it wouldn't matter if they all thought Error was dead, Ink would feel Error's magic and presence. holding back a yawn, Error pushed those matters to the corner of his mind, he would think about it in the morning.

Unknown to Error, Destiny laughed and nudged the magic swirling around them. Destiny's strings for Error glowed and broke off into many different parts. While Destiny can't interfere too much like Fate can, they can push and prodded to get the effect they want.

Now all Destiny can do for now is sit back and watch what choices Error would make now that he was finally free from Fate.

-End Chapter-

I was reading the story "Bandages" and "Butterscotch and Bones" by Kaliawai512 on Archiveofourown, it is based off of Zarla's "Handplates". This little Sans and Papyrus are based off that background but not completely.

Sans is young but still very much hurt. If he ran into a normal adult, like Grillby or Toriel, he would not trust them at all. But he found Error, who is bleeding and covered in scars, chips, and scratches. He feels like they are similar for that as both have been hurt, so Sans chooses to cling to the only one he deems 'Safe'. Error is just at the point were he doesn't care but is still so broken on the inside and outside. Don't worry, we'll get more baby Papyrus in the next chapter.

Error has a weakness for children in this story, especially broken children because he thinks himself as broken as well. Right now Error doesn't know he is in a new Multiverse, just thinks he is in a new young AU that he hasn't touched for the reason of being young. Too many children running about at this time for him. And while he hates being touched, he is just at the pint he doesn't care. It also helps that they are children and not adults touching him.

The reason I did not give so much detail of when Error was beaten by the others  is because I wanted Error to have flashbacks of characters he runs into or remembers it, like I did with Reaper!Sans in this chapter, or tell them later on what 'they' did to him, much to their horror.

Some AU's later on will have never been touched by Error, and it will be explained why he has never destroyed one. For example, Error never destroyed any Undernovela universe or Timeline because he likes watching them. I have no idea if I will use this AU, but it is just a example I am using.

[izazaa]

[sniperspy] x3

another comment!fic on Date Night 

flower shop au + two clones walk into a bar (the fics i’m actually working on are awful -- tentaspy (lo), sex pollen (lmao), and pseudo slave fic (o no) -- so i was hoping to start on something more decent, but.)

comment!fic to the prompt, "gift giving or holidays”

In some strange facsimile of a normal company, the goings-on of RED slow down during the winter holidays, and its mercenaries are left to languish in the rec room, no bloody mission to entertain them. On one such slow day, crammed together on a couch in the back, watching their teammates' hijinks, Spy leans over and drawls into Sniper's ear, "I suppose your accuracy only extends to bullets."

He's turned to Sniper, and his face is so close – they are pressed so close on this couch, how did this happen? – that it makes Sniper's heart hitch, but he's got on this idle expression, as though he's already dismissed the possibility of Sniper's skill, and Sniper cannot abide by that. So keeping eye contact the entire time, Sniper plucks the toothpick from his sandvich, and whips it at the dart board across the room. It whistles through the air, and thocks soundly in the dead centre of the bullseye.

The corner of Spy's mouth twitches, an almost smile, almost delighted. From his jacket, he discreetly pulls out a small knife, and, inexplicably, a sprig of mistletoe. "The doorway on the right. As soon as Miss Pauling takes two steps towards it."

It's tricky, with the added weight and resistance of the mistletoe, but again, it hits its target precisely, just as Miss Pauling reaches it, and just as Scout returns from his toilet break. The both of them look up, and their eyes widen, and then Miss Pauling has to shield herself with her clipboard from Scout's bluster.

Sniper cracks up, shaking with silent laughter. Beside him, pressed up against his side, Spy finally smiles, smug.

There is an outbreak of mistletoe on base after that. The sprigs appear as if by magic, even in places that were empty just a second ago, and their other teammates are happy to bully its latest victim into compliance. Heavy is made to kiss Natasha twice. Pyro headbutts Engie hard enough that the muzzle of his mask sends Engie's hard hat flying. In her efforts to avoid Scout, Miss Pauling has kissed so far, a can of Bonk!, a sandvich, a lvl 2 sentry, and Archimedes, instead of him.

It's the most festive fun he's had since Christmas on the farm all those years ago, sneaking around the base with Spy, armed with the tiny bow and arrow set that he'd procured from god knows where. But as with all good things, it has to come to an end; Spy soon runs out of mistletoe.

In a secluded corner of the base, Sniper holds up an arrow forlornly, the last sprig dangling from its tip. "I hope you have something planned for the grand finale."

"Ah, I did have something in mind," says Spy, then leans in and kisses his cheek. His nose nudges Sniper's sunglasses crooked. He chuckles at the sight it makes, then pushes further into Sniper's space, one hand at his face ostensibly to fix it. "That grand enough for you?"

Sniper stabs the arrow into the wall behind Spy so that the mistletoe hangs above them proper, and then presses Spy up against the wall. "Grander," he demands, then leans in to kiss Spy proper.

flower shop au (i once saw fanart of this au, wherein spy inexplicably had his mask on still -- it was hilarious, but i never found it again orz)

When Mundy storms into the flower shop, slams down twenty dollars, and makes his demands, he feels less like an unreasonable asshole customer when the florist turns, and what Mundy thought was a head scarf, is actually an equally unreasonable blue ski mask, wrapped around his entire head, and down his neck.

"What." Sniper looks around but the newly opened flower shop remains just that, with its bright bursts of colourful blossoms, and lush leaves. Nothing suspect about it, save the blue masked man behind the counter, whose name, when Sniper squints at the tag pinned to his matching blue apron, is Spy.

Spy furrows his brow at him. "I believe those words are mine. Could you repeat your request?"

Sniper repeats, enunciating carefully, "I need flowers that say fuck you."

"Ah," says Spy blandly, very professional. It endears him to Sniper immediately, mask or no mask. "Of course. Might I inquire the recipients...?"

"My parents."

To his further credit, Spy still doesn't even bat an eyelid, only slides out from behind the counter to regard his shelves of flowers. "Family feud?" he asks absently, plucking long stemmed flowers and placing them on brown paper.

Mundy shrugs, then decides, what the hell. It isn't like he'll ever need the services of a florist again, what with his toddling love life and the way his relationship with his biological parents is going. "We'd been estranged for 30 years. I only just found them. Doesn't make for a chummy relationship."

"I'm sure they had their reasons." Inexplicably, Spy's chosen this part of his story to stiffen. He stares resolutely at a single yellow carnation, and says with practiced informality, "After all, did they not ultimately reach out to you?"

"I reached out to them," Sniper grumbles, but concedes, "I'm not sayin' leaving your child makes you a bad person, but if your child tracks you down through no effort of your own, and the first thing you ask for is money, that might."

On a more expressive, non ski mask clad person, Spy's face might have read yikes. Instead, he goes, "ah," again and busies himself with arranging the chosen flowers into a small bouquet. "Yellow carnation, a fanciful way of saying 'you have disappointed me,'" he explains, slender fingers nimbly bundling them together and securing them with a ribbon, "foxglove for insincerity, and lastly, an orange lily for hatred."

The bouquet glows gold when it is completed. Sniper isn't a flower type of person, but even he can tell it's a job well done. He thanks Spy earnestly as he pays.

"Glad to hear it. And I hope your meeting goes well," Spy offers.

Sniper knows it won't, but with his bouquet in hand, he isn't dreading it quite as much as he had before.

two clones walk into a bar

It takes the BLU Sniper a good half year to sort through the nonsense left in his head after Medic's brain scooping, matching half remembered memories scrapped together with what he could dig out of his… original's file, so by the time he makes it to the house, it is dilapidated, and his parents are dead.

He sinks to his knees in front of their tombstones, traces the inscriptions in the hand carved stone. They were not his parents, technically, only the parents of the man he was cloned from, but they were good people either way, and worthy of grieving over. This is what Sniper has to tell himself when his vision begins to blur and fat tears drop onto his fists, clenched tight atop his knees.

There is a rustle behind him and it may well be twigs to a fire because Sniper is snarling with blistering fury as he launches himself at the intruder, kukri drawn. His rifle is left before the graves; he wants a fight.

The intruder parries his blade, but not before it slices through the thick fabric of his mask. With a grunt, both men topple over from Sniper's momentum. Sniper takes a blow to his shoulder hard enough that it knocks his kukri out of his grip, but he twists and slams the intruder's hand into the ground to dislodge his knife, and then they are grappling like children in the dirt.

Despair makes his movements sloppy and the mam bores Sniper into the earth. As Sniper thrashes under his weight, they locks eyes for a split second, and all the fight drains from him. With the last of his strength, he plants a boot into his stomach and punts him to the side. Then he lies there, gasping for breath, staring blankly at the sky. Taking his lack of resistance as cue, the intruder collapses down next to him.

For a moment, all is quiet. There is only the wind hissing across the expansive land, and their harsh breathing.

"Feeling better?"

The voice though feathered and panting is painfully familiar. Sniper would laugh if he had the breath for it. Of course it is the BLU Spy. That idiot of a clone who had the audacity to make passes at him before he decided against a counterfeit, then returned to mooning over his original, the RED Sniper, for the rest of their years as teammates.

Despite his better judgement, Sniper demands, "What are you doing here?"

"There are not many of us left."

That is true. Medic and Engineer had been terminated permanently for knowing too many of the company's secrets. There hadn't been enough of Solder to piece back together after that horrific experiment to fragment hikm into an army.  Pyro hadn't resisted the purge, and the rest had disappeared before the robot war began. Not a lot left, indeed.

"Why'd you come here?"

"The RED Spy locked me out of my – his contacts. I do not have any money nor property to return to."

It doesn't answer his question, but Sniper decides he doesn't want to press for answers. "As if that would stop you," he says instead.

"As a matter of fact, I have a suite in town." Despite his two broken fingers, Spy fishes out a cigarette and holds it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. "It is easily large enough should I bring back a guest."

Sniper prickles with distaste at the heavy suggestion in his tone. "Why the bloody hell would I go with you?"

"For old time's sake?" At Sniper's scoff, Spy shrugs easily. "Why would you stay here?"

Sniper cannot answer that, and it unsettles him so much that when Spy rises, brushes himself off, and offers him a hand, he takes it.

[sakura-soldier]

Barry Madison - Avengers OC Uniform

Ok, it's been 1 year since I've drawn and uploaded an Avengers uniform design for Tracey. Fast-forward to January 2016, I found myself having an urge to draw her twin brother, Barry in HIS new Avengers uniform. He was originally a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, but he and his fraternal twin sister ended up joining the Avengers sometime after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier (he's also part of the Winter Is Ending series, written by @winter-is-ending/Singer of Water). Back in S.H.I.E.L.D, he was simply known as "Agent Madison", but then a couple years later (read "The Fireman" by Just A Little Birdy on fanfiction.net to understand this pic: www.fanfiction.net/s/11575901/…), he discovered a flamethrower gun during a mission, which originally belonged to one of those cliched mad scientists, and had to use it to fight a monster. Because of this, the internet and the Avengers (much to Barry's suffering) originally called him Fireman, but then Tracey hacked into social media and she christened him with the superhero name Firebrand instead.

Weird thing was, I tried starting this drawing back in January 2016, but that time, I was struggling with how his uniform was supposed to look like AND I got swamped over by homework and stuff, resulting in a huge-ass case of artist's blocks for months and months, so I only finished part of the lineart until just now (late April 2017-Thursday. May. 11, 2017), when I finally got the inspiration and guts to finish the whole thing (even though sadly, it took me about a few months/1 year-ish to even finish). Also, the WEIRDER thing was that, way back before Just a Little Birdy's story was written, I came up with a DIFFERENT superhero name and power/weapons for Barry; I originally wanted to call him Endgame and I planned to give him special gloves/fingerless gloves (?) that would give him the ability to move objects around in thin air with the help of physical motion/gestures and telekinesis just after leaving a signature imprint on it (inspired by video game logic and abilities). Sadly, I had to start my concept over from scratch, as well as the colour palette a few times as soon as Barry became Firebrand (unless like, I don't know, you wanna see Barry as Endgame, maybe?).

So for this outfit, I wanted to give off some kind of connection to Barry's original job as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, but since he's an Avenger now (with a new alias, too), I wanted him to prove that he is more independent, less restrained by militaristic or spy rules, and have a sense of freedom and individuality, but still connected to the organization he previously (currently?) worked in. The difficult part though, was to not make it super flashy, let alone make it super obvious that his flamethrower-like gun/fire was his weapon (think Johnny Storm's powers/Fantastic 4 uniform, flame-patterned fabrics and clothing, warm colours like red, orange, yellow, etc..); otherwise, it would make him a bigger target for the enemy to attack or notice him. For Barry's uniform, his jacket (don't worry, he's wearing a short-sleeved top underneath) and leggings could be connected together with tiny metal hooks hooking inside the jacket and legging's waistline, as if it looks like a bodyglove/jumpsuit, but it can appear as separate clothing items as well. They are charcoal black (although slightly lighter) and slightly distressed with a bit of a metallic sheen underneath (you know how some leather clothing would have have shiny, iridescent, metallic layers underneath the original black, brown, or gray colour; it's kinda like that), but it's not too obvious. Believe it or not, the jacket was actually based on a black trench coat I owned, which has a high collar like the one Barry's sporting. The collar flaps, as you can see, can be laid flat like the ones from a leather jacket, rolled up to his neck like a turtleneck or scarf for warmth, or even pulled up to cover the lower half of his face like a mask or scarf for warmth, concealing his identity, or (if Stark Industries or other technology allows it) even acting like a gas mask of some kind. The jacket buttons are bright blue, but they could also be navy blue, silver, or black either in plain or the Avengers logo. There's even a darker black pocket on his left side for extra storage, which I got the idea from after randomly discovering a jean pocket from a denim bag I saw on tumblr. :P Since Barry and Tracey are fraternal twin brother and sister, I wanted to create a few similarities and indications that can imply that Barry's related to Tracey (the two uniforms have slightly loose yet form-fitting jacket, tight leggings, the asymmetrical zipper on Barry's right and Tracey's left, the buckles on Barry's left shoulder/his left and Tracey's right shoulder/her right that are inspired by asymmetrical leather jackets and Bucky's Howling Commando's jacket, belt shape, usage of fingerless gloves, and ankle boots), but it's also easy to tell that they're mostly different (by colour schemes, abilities/strengths/skills/themes, button and belt colours, zipper and buckle positions, silhouettes, belt structure, separate vs. attachment pieces, and shades of black in the leather).

The leggings should provide mobility and freedom to move around (and to give Darcy some secret eye-candy, mmm~), while his simple black ankle boots have flat soles, rather than ones with heels, laces, or buckles, so that they're easy to put on. There's a holster with a pouch on his right left while his belt design is actually inspired by chain belts and this ribbon-like version Dan Kuso from Bakugan: New Vestroia wore as his New Vestroia/Vestal outfit (you're gonna have to look him up though, to get the idea); the "chain" is more of a decoration than anything, but it can be attached or detached from the actual belt depending on what Barry's comfortable with. The fingerless gloves are two separate versions; the "outer" layer is technically part of the jacket is based on atheltic stretch tops, running shirts, oversized sleeves, and Quicksilver's/Pietro's (Age of Ultron version)'s blue Under Armor top, while the inner layer is a dark, inky black and they're actual fingerless gloves underneath, which can be worn together or separately for protection and to keep his palms warm.

Now, the most unique part about Barry's uniform are the flame designs that run down from his shoulders to barely touching his hands, from his outer thighs to his ankles. They don't seem too significant at first, UNTIL you actually look at them more closely. At first glance, people might perceive them as normal swirls, but really, they're stylistic designs of flames (ok, I struggled with drawing actual flames for his drawing that doesn't too obvious, is small enough for the size, AND easier to tell that it's fire, so I experimented with swirls and curves like I did with Tracey's hair and ended up creating my own flame designs, which looks really cool). As for the colours, you'd be surprised at how colourful they looked; depending on how Barry moves around, the lighting, angles, or even his emotions, either the entire designs or the individual flames can change colour, which can vary from blues, whites, traditional fire colours of red, orange, and yellow, or even unusual colours like purple, pink, gold, or green. But why those colours? Well, basically, they represent the physical states of fire, which can change into different colours depending on the chemical compositions of burning material, immediate reaction products, chemicals, and temperature. I recommend looking this up to have a better understanding of flame colours and temperatures: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flame. They also reflect the temperment and unpredictability of Barry's personality inside and outside of his missions. Also, the colours COULD also act like a mood ring, in which the flame colours can change and reflect depending on his emotions and mental state. BUT if Tony Stark, S.H.I.E.L.D, or other kinds of technology could make this possible, then the flame designs would also emit and/or reflect heat to keep himself and other people warm, could light up a dark room like reflective tape/glow-in-the-dark clothes and paint/reflective elements like in Pietro's shirt, AND/OR if Barry got manhandled/grabbed/physically in contact with the enemy (human, monster, robots, or otherwise), he can either unleash his anger as a trigger (like how Bruce turns into the Hulk) or use hidden buttons inside his uniform to make himself burst into actual flames that come out via the flame designs to burn or melt the enemy/enemies, but can be cooled off by self-control/calmness/non-angry feelings or the hidden buttons so that they won't burn his actual clothing. Either of the following options depend on @winter-is-ending/Singer of Water and her choices for future stories.

I also managed to provide colour palettes for the overall outfit and the flames (sorry if some parts are cropped up though; I think my parents cut off part of it with Photoshop without telling me -__-), and I tried to practice the jacket collar in two variations (though it's actually three) and Barry's hair with several headshots. The front view made him look like Finnick Odair (or maybe that's just me?) while everything else is either sticky-uppy or loosy and shaggy. (BARRY MADISON, YOUR HAIR IS AN ABOMINATION!!!! NAH, JK, I LOVE YOU EVEN IF YOU HAVE HARD-TO-DRAW HAIR, BRO.) The materials I used were pencil crayons, two different types of pens, a thin fineliner, and a hint of eraser. It took longer to draw Barry compared to Tracey and I had to improve and reinvent a lot of stuff compared to what I originally planned, but I liked the results so far and I hope Mel would like it. *^^*

deviantArt version: http://artist-cupid.deviantart.com/art/Barry-Madison-Avengers-OC-Uniform-Design-680500893?ga_submit_new=10%3A1494763216&ga_type=edit&ga_changes=1&ga_recent=1

Drawing and uniform concept design belongs to me, @sakura-soldier.

Barry Madison/Firebrand belongs to @winter-is-ending/@the-melapedes-main-blog (also known as Singer of Water.

Please don't use my drawing or uniform design without my permission first, thank you.

[aureasadrisit]

how about a " 5 times they almost met up again after the circles fell / the civil war started, but just missed one another due to bad timing or other circumstances "

Five times ______ed ( accepting ) | @servesorlais​

I.  

Arranging for the blood and for how the room would look had not been an easy manner, not human blood at least. Arranging for the remaining loyal templars to leave her was the hardest part, it broke her heart to know that they would blame themselves for what was to transpire there. There would be no corpse but it wasn’t needed either, assumed dead as was as good as dead when a pretty mage was involved and that was what Daph… Maxima was betting on. Her phylactery was accidentally destroyed a couple of months beforehand and she had yet have the chance of redoing it, with the whole mess and stress coming from Kirkwall and considering that she was always so well behaved, they simply added more templars when they could spare it. Sometimes, they simply called in favours to guards to hopefully protect their charges. She wondered if they understood how much worse giving their charges, most that did not know how to fight, to men and women like them? In the end, it didn’t matter, she made sure that the room looked the part. Her jewels gone but not to carry with herself, only a small backpack had been allowed, everything else was to make part of the play.

Her jewels would be sold, eventually, later. For now, they would be ‘stolen’. Her father, it still sounded so strange to call him that, had arranged for her transport, quite far away from there. A package a few months back had arrived with the clothes that she should wear and the papers to cross the borders. Doing such a thing to the room that she had always considered to be a home that she’d never leave made her feel that something had come out of place, she had not said goodbye to anyone, left no letters. Only an empty room with blood and burn marks, teared fabric. While that made her feel calmer, that she did not need to explain anything to anyone, ignoring the hollowness that clawed her lungs threatening to pierce through them was much harder.

As she crossed the streets with her face covered with a veil covering her face as many ladies would do when visiting the Chantry. She nearly froze when a group of chevaliers passed on the other end of the street, she did not alter her speed, nor did she look in their direction. They seemed distracted enough and the last thing that she wanted was to attract their attention. When she stepped in the carriage, only then does she look at them and she thinks she recognises the blond hair under the hat with the yellow feather, but perhaps she was simply imagining things. Her head shakes as her hands move directly to her cherry cigarettes and the full wine bottle that was displayed on the other side of the carriage.

As the horses are told to go, Maxima wonders if it was her eyes playing ugly tricks on her but Val Royeaux had never seemed so beautiful like on that night.

II.

Maxima returns a single time to Orlais after the news of the War of the Lions breaks out. While to everyone around her, her interest is merely academic, almost a morbid curiosity of what might come from two people that in her very educated opinion should be helping each other instead of tearing themselves apart, to her it’s something quite different. Daphné would have stood behind Celene, if one was to chose between supporting Celene or Gaspárd, to sway the people’s opinion there was only one option that seemed good enough. Gaspárd was and had always been someone that only had war and honour painted across his forehead and the blood of those beneath him paid the price as he played conqueror, as he played with the lives of the Orlesian Empire just for the fact that he did not hold the title.

Returning to Orlais had drove her to a deeper and harder drive into the bottle than she had expected and to say that her head was threatening to explode after such a long ride to Montsimmard and rough sleeping was a misunderstanding. No one could deny who she was without getting a good fistful of what Livius had to say about what they thought. She did not want to be seen and that also meant that Livius was simply there to make sure that she would not get into trouble that she would not be able to come out of. Her clothing was far from what she loved to dress, leather pieces much similar to what she wore before when aiding Marius. She would have wore a closer attire to what the people in Montsimmard dressed but she needed to be able to get to her daggers fast when… if they needed to be used.

Livius and Maxima are standing by a small stall of food almost next to the entrance of the alienage. Despite the easy smile and the searing headache she can see that Livius knows how anxious and nervous she is to be there. They would not go into the alienage, her business was outside of it. Her hair is tired up, curled but hidden beneath a cowl, much like Livius’, face hidden by a scarf. She had forgotten how much she hated the cold. Two other men cross the same narrow street but Maxima’s eyes are glued to the floor and they do not move when her shoulder hits against the one closest to her, she does not even glance up even as she nearly trips on herself due to the strength of the other. Livius stops to look back but she doesn’t and continues her march down those streets that she knew far too well.

III.

   “Lady Maxima, I think it is prime time to stop and get some rest.” Livius’ calm voice can be heard as he sits beside her on an empty table. She was the last one awake from it since the other three men and women had already fallen asleep with her heads on top of their glasses. When Maxima’s eyes move up to meet his the first thing that she wants to say is that she knows when it is prime time to stop and not him but she bites her tongue and instead drinks the rest of the glass while glaring directly at him. She would do whatever she wanted especially with the new knowledge that had gotten into her hands she thought that she damn well deserved to drink as much as she wanted. She should be happy, truly, but instead she felt petty towards the bitterness and anger that came from knowing that now she had more half siblings beyond the ones that resided in Tevinter.

No, now she had full blown elven half-siblings that would never know of their existence even if she had paid to make sure that they would remain safe. Well, as safe as money could buy considering in the shithole that they lived. She deserved to feel like she was fucking there, that she was just not some wild tale of a woman that got stuck between two families that wished that she never existed. Fucking hell, this is pathetic, Maxima since when do you care. So instead of letting her eyes water she would burn her whole throat down until she couldn’t feel anything else. She would rather die than to cry over that woman ever again. Bitch, never had enough patience for her, enough love for her but for fully pointed ear children she has all the time, patience and love to give.

   “I am tired.“ she rises to her feet, even if she feels like she’s standing straight she knows best, especially how gelatinous her legs felt. Livius’ expression of relief was quickly washed over when her hands wrap around the half filled bottle and she starts making her way towards the stairs. Not before, of course, removing her shoes she didn’t want to end up with her ankle gone “Go pay the innkeeper, please, we leave first thing in the morning.“ 

She knew she would feel like death but well, she already felt pretty dead so feeling worse perhaps would aid her in increasing her self pity. As soon as her door closes another opens and a man walks out, grim expression when facing the snow outside. It doesn’t get better from this point onward, Michel and snow is the least of your problems.

IV.

   “Oh, sorry dearest Josie, I was not aware that it was quite so late!” she gets up slowly from the chair next to the fireplace on Josie’s office, she would have died to have one like that in the small room that she was staying in. Skyhold nights were dreadfully cold, she guessed it was to be expected but they really didn’t need to chose the coldest part of Orlais, in the middle of the mountains, to have as their base, did they? 

She hums saying her goodbyes, she guessed that she would need to freeze over making her way to her quarters. She hoped that Agatha had not turned into a Popsicle of white fur before she got there, or perhaps found a way out of the room to go steal from the kitchens. Despite seeing Livius’ expression of exasperation everytime he went to grab her being extremely amusing she could not allow the animal to continue to wreck havoc in the kitchens. The door is closed behind her and her fingers move to the interior of her pockets. The thing with Orlesian armour is that they were very noticeable that, Orlesian.

They were crafted in a way that they would be the center of attention, always even if your job was to be an assassin. So when the candle light shone against what she thought it was the shape of a lion her eyes nearly snapped at it, heart climbing its way up her throat at the speed of lightning as suddenly it seemed that the throne room was not so cold after all. Green eyes would have reached its destination had it not been for the Inquisitor’s voice “Lady Maxima, a moment, if you could!“

Her body turns immediately towards the door to the left of the throne, a large smile drawn on her lips as she approaches slowly. Please let it not be Agatha again, please, please, they indicate for her to follow him and they leave the room “Inquisitor, I always have a moment for you.”

V.

There are very few things, in Maxima’s opinion, that could really change your way of seeing life. One, would be to discover that you have magic and that the rest of the world is not really appreciative of such a fact. Two, is the first attempt on your life that you survive and the aftermath that comes from it ( and how, after a while, your mind immediately jumps into action, even if your life is not actually in danger ). Three, to see the Orlesian Empress die before your very own eyes when the whole point to go to the Halamshiral ball had been to protect her. She was walking towards Michel’s figure, it had been… well, years really and considering how the night seemed to be coming to a close she had deluded herself enough that maybe. 

It was a weight that had been removed from her shoulders, all the whispers and rumours that had surrounded his name. If Maxima was to be honest, she thought that he had died during the Civil War. It would not have been a nice conversation but maybe with the evening’s mood? Maybe? She wasn’t sure what she expected. 

When the Empress’ voice rang across the ballroom though, she stopped, turning instead of meet her only to have her eyes widened and mouth open in horror as the events unfold right before her eyes and she freezes. Livius hand immediately wraps around her arm pulling her from the crowd and from the moment of dumbfoundedness towards the exists. How could this happen, how did the Inquisition allow it to happen?

[shadowofadalekmightdeactivate]

BATIM fusions AU

I was gonna wait until I finished the game but buggar it all NOTE: I don’t own any of the characters, they all belong to @fangirltothefullest and their expies of themeatly’s characters. I just couldn’t stop thinking about an AU for them and had the idea for this monstrosity

Joey Drew: Progic Progic grew bitter after a project of his went wrong. One could almost say he went off the deep end. He could often be heard mumbling in his room alone. The appearance of the ink machine only seemed to make him worse. Appearance: He looks generally the same: same long coat, same pants, same boots, same gloves. He dyed his hair red at one point before meeting Moric and it seems to have stained his hair permanently, giving him a ginger-like appearance (when he’s naturally blond). 6’4” with 4 eyes (3 on the right side of his face) and 3 arms. Personality: Progic’s personality changed drastically. The playful, flirty man Moric fell in love with slowly deteriorated into a selfish, dream-chasing egomaniac. It’s unknown what caused him to suddenly reach out to Moric years later. Death: Still lives. (Side note: Progic can’t write.)

Henry: Moric Moric was Progic’s lover, comforting him when the experiment went south and bringing food for him when he started spending hours alone in his office. He was plenty hurt when he was suddenly fired and seemingly cut out of Progic’s life. (And very confused when he got a letter asking him to return.) Appearance: He still wears his blue shirt and dapper dinosaur tie, but switched his red shorts for a pair of pants due to the cold. He still has mismatched socks, but after chapter 2 along his legs are so dark from ink, you’d be hard-pressed to tell. By chapter 4 he winds up with ink up to his waist, elbows and splattered across his shirt. 6’4” with 3 eyes (one on his forehead). His pupils shrink for several seconds when he’s scared, excited or experiencing any other extreme emotion. His hair is brown, the bangs dyed a medium shade of blue. Personality: Ultimate dad, even past his breaking point. He only fights the ink creatures if he’s in terrible danger and prefers to run. Overall a nice guy. Noticeably quieter in chapter 4 due to several factors: a head injury, focus on finding Creatiy and reaching the end of his rope. Death: Still lives. (Side notes: Became a master axe-wielder after having to fight the Butcher gang, Decan and brute Creatiy He found a recording that sounded like the Progic he knew and loved in chapter 4 and now always has it with him. Even sleeps with it. Deceit pokes fun at him for this)

Butcher gang: Lodec, Patteit, Moxie

Sammy Laurence: Lauron Lauron spent most of his hired life writing for ‘Living Marionette’, usually trying to lowkey undermine Progic and ruin his reputation in the process. He managed to avoid the mass firing by simply staying in his office, though it didn’t save him from the gory aftermath that followed. Appearance: Unknown before the ink machine era. Seems to be made totally from ink, with nothing but an ink-stained coat, pants and Vercei mask covering him. 5’7” with no eyes, ears or mouth. Personality: A real piece of work pre- and post-ink machine. Pre-ink machine he was manipulative, back-stabbing and cruel, post-ink machine he was driven mad by the ink and elected himself as the ‘prophet’ for Vercei-sacrificing Moric just to please him (and maybe find a way out of his inky Hell). Death: He was put down by Vercei when he called him up to sacrifice Moric.

Norman Polk/the Projectionist: Viran Viran was probably the happiest employee there. He was allowed to make and research his conspiracy theories as long as they didn’t interfere with his work and was given way too much free access to paper. How he found himself wading through knee-deep ink he had no idea, how the projector got fused to his head even less so. The loneliness and pain of being alone downstairs for god knows how many years left him morally scrambled. Appearance: Pre-ink machine he wore a black shirt with a purple vest, as well as black jeans and shoes. They’re all made of oddly heavy fabrics due to Viran’s Autism-induced touch sensitivity made it hard to tolerate anything else for prolonged periods. 6’2”, 4 eyes and arms. Black hair, bangs dyed purple. Post ink-machine he wound up completely made of ink with a projector for a head. 6’7”. One eye, 4 arms. Personality: Pre-ink machine he was twitchy, jittery and full of ideas for conspiracies. He could be blunt and had a short temper, but overall he was a good guy. Post-ink machine, he doesn’t seem to have any sentience or thoughts other than chase and kill. Maybe he recognizes Moric and blames him for his lover’s actions, there’s no way of finding out. Death: Vercei put him out of his misery by ripping his head off after he caught him loitering in front of a miracle station Moric was hiding in.

Boris: Creaity Creatiy Catt was animated as a friend/almost brother figure to Vercei. With the events of the past he seems to have multiplied, although only one copy remains, the others all brutally dissected like rats. Creatiy will do his best to protect, guide and comfort Moric when he can. Appearance: He seems to have been based off of a superhero, with an elaborate and brightly coloured costume. He could summon a red, heart-shaped shield in the cartoon, but can’t do so in reality-most likely because he’s made entirely of ink. Has cat ears and a tail. 5’10” (11” with the boots). Brown hair. 3 eyes (one on his forehead). Personality: Absolute sweetheart. He’s quite handy and decent with weapons, holding his own for long before Moric’s appearance (the only way Anvity even got his hands on him was because he was distracted!). However, he’s also afraid of the dark and loud noises. Death: Tragically killed by Moric in self-defence, after Anvity got his hands on Creatiy and forced him to attack his friend.

Alice Angel (Susie): Prince Anvity (Roman) Prince Anvity was originally going to be voiced be upcoming voice actor Roman, who may have possibly had a short fling with Lauron (possibly the reason he got the job) before it was suddenly yanked out from under him. He took this as well as expected and threatened to quit until Moric took pity on him and offered him a job. If only he’d let him storm off in a snit, he’d have saved himself and Creaity a lot of grief… (Side note: Mostly Creatiy *COUGH*) Appearance: To say Prince Anvity looks monstrous would be being nice. His eyes are black, with the pupils seemingly just floating in constantly dribbling pools of ink. His right eye is too large, the left side of his mouth is frozen in a constant snarl, his wings end with edges like razors, his fingers end in deadly claws…And to top it all off? He’s taller than Moric, reaching a height of almost 7 feet. 6’9”. Brown hair bleeding to black at the bangs. 2 eyes (right eye taking up almost all of that side of his face) and small wings. Personality: Look in the dictionary for the word “sadistic” and this iteration of Anvity will most likely show up as the definition. He manipulates Moric into doing things for him under the false pretense of giving him freedom, only to nearly kill him and Creatiy by sending the elevator they’re on crashing down to the last floor. He taunts Moric, insults him, teases him and withholds information from him in the hopes of having him killed. There are absolutely no redeeming qualities about him-whatever good things there were about Roman were completely omitted in favour of jealousy and vanity. Death: Prince Anvity was killed by the “pure” Anvity, who impaled him with a sword when he was gunning for Moric.

Bendy: Vercei Vercei’s the main character of the cartoon ‘Living Marionette’. Only one attempt was made to animate him in the real world, and it derailed so badly it was never attempted again. Vercei now stalks Moric around the halls of the studio after Lauron frees him from the ink machine’s room, his motives questionable. Appearance: The animating process did not treat Vercei well at all. His hood melted over his eyes, leaving only the eye in the back to see. Said eye is a washed-out yellow and generally looks unsettling, bulging out to the point it appears it’s going to pop out in any passing chapter. His hoodie-already a mess of patches and stitches in the animation-is fused to his body and seems to make his arms longer. 5’7”. One eye and 4 arms (two wrapped around his midsection). Personality: Vercei’s personality is currently unknown. No one knows what makes him tick, how he thinks or why he does what he does. He hunts Moric for an unknown reason and fought (and won) a fight with the Projectionist when he did the same thing. He gets angry when you destroy any of the varied Vercei cutouts around the studio…And that’s about the only hint we get about his sentience. Death: Still lives.

Bertum Piedmont: Decan Decan was the brains behind VerceiVille, drawing up plans and building the majority of it. He grew very salty over being introduced to people as “DeeDee”, claiming it demeaned him to being like a child. Progic pulling the plug on VerceiVille suddenly drove Decan to possess a ride (possibly by suicide, possibly by a ritual. We may never know). He now lashes out at everything that moves. Appearance: pre-ink machine, he was quite a dashing fellow. He dressed in a trenchcoat, black jeans and shoes, and wore a red scarf and fedora even indoors. He was also often seen chewing on a wooden toothpick. 5’6”. 3 eyes (2 on the right side of his face), curly red hair. Post-ink machine he was little more than a massive head in an octopus ride. Personality: This man adored to speak like he came out of the 1920’s. He only dropped the habit if he was furious or upset, which was rare (but frightening). As an octopus ride he never speaks at all, preferring to wait in silence until Progic comes back so he can smash him to a pulp and be done with it. Death: Less of a death, more of a defeat-Moric took an axe to all the attachments holding his “arms” together, meaning he could no longer fight.

Alice Angel (Alison): Prince Anvity (Virgil) The newer voice actor for Prince Anvity, a man of few words. He had no bad memories when whatever went down regarding the ink machine happened, so he’s regarded as the “pure” Anvity (minus the fact he’s partially crippled and needs to walk via cane). He may or may not be in love with Creatiy. Appearance: A good foot shorter than Roman’s Prince Anvity, Virgil’s Prince Anvity is a sight for sore eyes. He has more horns, holes in his wings and is lame in both legs, having to walk with the assistance of an intricately decorated cane. 5’9”. Brown hair bleeding to black at the bangs. 3 eyes (two on the right side of his face). Personality: Shy and quiet, not as boisterous as Roman’s Anvity. He worries for Moric after watching him break down crying in the hallway-something Deceit has no sympathy for, to his frusteration. Death: Unknown.

Boris (but Tommy): Creatiy (but Deceit) Still silent, still tall, hates Moric for unknown reasons. Anvity has to keep him off the traumatized man’s back 90% of the time. The other times, well…Let’s just say Moric’s not so traumatized he’s lost any and all snark. Appearance: Is just another copy of Creatiy. Often glaring. Personality: Disliked Moric for some reason or other, debatable because he felt he abandoned them. Otherwise he’s a decent man, coming to his and Anvity’s defence when they’re threatened. Death: Unknown.