These past couple days been battling with one hell of a heatwave and a cat who's decided said heatwave is the perfect excuse to lounge over anything with a pulse like a walking heater. So have some doodles bc I think the boys wouldn't mind being bombarded by cuddly cats.
These past couple days been battling with one hell of a heatwave and a cat who's decided said heatwave is the perfect excuse to lounge over anything with a pulse like a walking heater. So have some doodles bc I think the boys wouldn't mind being bombarded by cuddly cats.
I've been doodling these two for a little bit now and since the game's come out finally decided to give them some proper refs in time for ArtFight this year.
So meet Carrie and Oak! They're the microphones for the mini karaoke machine you somehow came into possession of! Maybe they were picked up at a car boot sale on a whim, or maybe a hopeful housewarming gift that never got used? Who knows!
Honestly a miracle they work at all, considering both were part of completely seperate systems before being plugged into their current machine, but hey, you'll never have to deal with a quiet home again once they're acknowledged lmao.
A quick little doodle to celebrate roping my twinnie @itscanonfellas into getting the game too her playthrough is going very different from mine rn lmao
Hope ya'll are having fun finally romantically and platonically wooing your favs!🧡🧡🧡
Oooh, Caesar as a mer would be interesting too. Also funny idea, what if his pink cheek birthmarks were bioluminescent pff
:0
Anon your MIND. Imagine just minding your bisuness in the water looking down and just seeing two bright pink glowing marks - he can say goodbye to ever being subtle in dark waters lmao.
Thinking about Caesar with cute bioluminescent spots too I just had to draw it he'd look so cute!!
-Really wanted to get at least one thing posted in time for mermay - I'm a sucker for a good ol mer AU so I made this! I might do some more for other chracters if anyone's interested.-
The sun hangs high overhead as you make your way down to the docks, humming along to a nonexistent tune as you swing the loop of your keys around a finger. The warmth beats at the back of your neck, the heat offset only by the pleasant breeze that’s becoming more prevalent the closer you get to your destination.
It’s the same day every week, a practiced routine that you fall into easily. Your pack hangs heavy with the spoils of the day, picked up from home and the many storefronts that line your commute. It bounces at your hip in the wake of your brisk pace as the waters edge comes into view, and you bring your hand to brace beneath it as your steps break into a jog to close the remaining distance.
The sweet nonna’s who take their lunch at the waterfront cafe catch you as you go, giving their usual fearful warnings between bites of tramezzini and washed down with sips of coffee. They’re fretting over your safety with such fond concern that of course you have to stop by to assuage their fears.
“Be careful piccola,” they fret in unison, voices dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if afraid of being heard over the lapping tide. “You know the Scolio’s boat capsized just last week! Who knows what could be in those waters.”
And just like always you’d flashed that same placating smile, patting away sweet Ms. Abbatini’s hand who, despite all delicate appearances, has your arm in a vice that takes genuine effort to slip free of. “I’ll be fine nonnina;I always am.” you assure them with a confident chuckle as you disappeared down the walkway, waving and calling back, “The sea is on my side today!”
Their doubtful expressions are understandable. After all, tourists and locals alike knew better than to brave the deep waters alone. And yet you stride down to the ramp to where your beloved boat stagnates with all the confidence of one who knows better than both, allowing your pack to flop onto the deck with a hefty thud as you start up the engine and direct it seaward.
The ocean air whips at your face; the scent of saltwater straight from the open sea forms a pungent tang that welcomes you like an old friend. It perks up your senses, nipping away at whatever tiredness still clings to your bones, and you already feel lighter than you did back on land.
It isn’t until the shoreline is an amalgamation of rooftops and silhouettes that you cut the motor and drop the anchor, taking a moment to survey the land you’d come from.
The ocean stretches wide and vast as far as the eye can see, the light catching shades of teal and marine in a kaleidoscope of blues and greens that almost glow beneath the reflection of the sun overhead.
Nothing disturbs its surface, and gives no indication of what could hide underneath but that’s fine; that only means that you still have some time to kill. Hoisting the rucksack into your arms you amble towards the stern of your ship. There’s a small setup - a pop up tray table and a single lounge chair facing out to the ocean which you’re quick to make use of. Sliding the bag onto the table, you’re careful to ensure that it doesn’t sag off of the edge with its weight. If it was any cooler you’d take the time to spread out the contents, but reason that it’s probably better to keep them out of the sun; instead you opt to drop down into the chair, stretching out until you’re a content gangle of limbs, soaking up the warmth of the sun as you wait.
And wait.
…And wait.
……And still wait.
…Huh.
Time drags by; the warmth upon your skin is beginning to morph into an uncomfortable tingle. You squint up at the sun through your fingers, wiping the sweat from your brow with a sigh. With any luck, you’ve got two, three hours before the heat grows too much to stay out on the open water, and there’s still no sign of him.
You regret not bringing a parasol, and though the thought or turning back to go grab it is tempting you think better of it. Chances are you’ll get an earful from the marina guards for the repeated trips - you’re already on their shitlist for making these rides out to sea unattended, like you haven’t defied their warnings since the moment you first inherited your precious ship.
Rumors run rampant through the town, and have for the better part of a couple of decades at least. From tales of poachers to sea monsters, there’s been enough speculation as to what lurks beyond the shore to generate superstition and caution. There’s designated spots that the local fishermen avoid like the plague, no matter how good the pickings are; places on the water that not even the most daring tour guide could be paid to risk.
While there aren’t any signs or official laws, the word of mouth is enough to spread the unspoken rule that permeates your beloved home. Respect the ocean’s rules if you value your vessel.
Not that you need to worry about that. At least, not anymore.
As if on cue the sound of dull scraping comes from underfoot, snapping your attention downwards. You can’t see a thing, but your ears prick up as your eyes tail its imagined path below deck. Wait, no, it’s not just scraping - knocking. Three quick raps against the vessel, followed by the drag of a fine sharp edge catching along the underside from bow to stern.
You know that sound.
Springing from your seat, you make a dash to the portside but you’re not fast enough. You barely catch a flash orange in the water before it vanishes below the underside of the boat so fast you could almost believe you imagined it, if you didn’t already know better.
You shoot across to the other side, grappling for the railing to keep yourself from going overboard in your haste. What greets you this time is more than a splash of color. A pair of deep green eyes stare back from the depths, slitted pupils trained on your face as though they’d been expecting you. There’s an intelligence behind them that makes you bristle, for a moment stunned silent as your gaze pieces together what few features you can make out distorted by the ripples in the water.
Then the tension drops from your shoulders. You huff, “About time. I was thinking you weren’t going to show, Formaggio.”
A face breaches the surface tension, flashing you a smile that’s biting sharp with too many teeth.
“Aw come on, you’re missing me already, amica? Sounds like you need new hobbies.”
You don’t take the bait, moving away from the edge and giving him a wide berth of space. “Get up here - the food’ll spoil in the heat if you don’t.”
“Hello to you too.” Formaggio scoffs, rolling his eyes. Still he follows your lead, muscled arms speckled with bronze and silver slinking out of the sea to grapple for the railing, pulling himself up.
The boat lurches, dipping under his weight as Formaggio hoists his bulky frame on board. He brings half of the sea with him too as saltwater rushes in alongside him, sloshing around up to your ankles as his torso crosses the threshold of the vessel.
His tail kicks up a spray of seawater to propel him over, the appendage brightening from a muted ash to a vibrant orange the further down you look, all blotted with the same dark spots splattered on his back. The caudal fin still hangs over the edge, because of course he can’t be bothered to set himself upright when lounging across the entire width of your deck and getting under your feet is an option.
Still you maneuver deftly over the bulk of his tail back to your lounge chair, slumping into the worn wood waiting for Formaggio to finally settle enough that you don’t risk stepping on his fins. Only once the shifting stops and those eyes are back on you, expecting again, do you play your next hand, gesturing over to the tray table that’s miraculously stayed upright during all of his squirming.
“Picked up some more of those sandwiches from Camberts’,” you note, tone light. “I figured you like them, since you ate yours and mine last time. So have at it.”
The jab is met merely with a shrug, waved off with a hand as Formaggio’s attention strays away from you and over to the rickety little table. “Not my fault you were too slow. You’ve got to be faster than that to catch anything good.”
Sea water runs in rivulets down his face and shoulders, a steady stream of droplets soaking into your pack as he crowds around it that will no doubt take hours to dry later, even with the heat. You hadn’t bothered to bring an icebox for the cooler foods, not that you’d need it. Formaggio’s appetite’s voracious; whether that was just a mer thing or a Formaggio thing you had no clue.
He tears into the packed lunches with little regard for the integrity of your rucksack; good thing it was heavy duty, or you fear Formaggio’s clawed fingers would pull it to ribbons. Clearly conversation isn’t the highlight of today’s ‘visit’, so your gaze begins to drift, landing on the strip of his neck as he cranes his head this way and that.
His gills look as though they’ve been carved with a fine knife, blending so seamlessly into his tawny skin that you only catch them flutter as he breathes in the contents of his latest gift. A flash of white and your eyes dart up just in time to see the curl of his lips, revealing those rows of sharp teeth that you find yourself staring at longer than you should with the realization of exactly what you’re now sharing a boat with.
How did you even get into this? This entire arrangement was bizarre.
You’d mistaken him for some weird fish the first time you’d run afoul of the mer several months back - he sort of reminded you of the leopard sharks you’d seen in old science books, if it wasn’t for the odd coloration and imposing size.
Formaggio, apparently, had been planning to sink your ‘little toothpick of a boat’ when you’d first met (a title that had earned him a kick to the flank when he’d casually thrown it in mid-conversation the month after because goddammit that’s your toothpick). That was until his interest had been piqued by the charcuterie board left unattended when you’d moved over to the bow of the boat for a drink.
Of course you’d nearly had a heart attack when you’d turned back to find the monster of a mer picking at what was left of your lunch, but aside from the bottle dropped in your shock that had taken days to scrub fully from the deck, Formaggio had caused no further damage. In fact, he actually stuck around.
Lucky for you (or not), apparently he’s developed a taste for human food. God knows how you convinced him to take that over tanking your boat for the hell of it, but now you’re dragged into giving him impromptu ‘offerings’ roughly once a week.
He says it’s protection pay. You call it an unexpected jump in your grocery bill.
You wonder if Formaggio does the same to the rest of his pod to keep them off of your back. There’s at least several more of them that you know of from what he tells you, and how he convinced them to let you stay is anyone’s guess. You find yourself mulling it over, long enough that your mouth is moving before your brain’s caught up.
“Hey, ‘Maggio?” There’s a noise of acknowledgment heard vaguely around a mouthful of food - you take that as a sign to continue.
“How do you know one of your podmates isn't going to mistake me for some fishing boat and capsize this thing? You’re not here all the time, and I can’t always work around you, you know?” The thought crossed your mind before, despite assurances, and you really want to know for sure that the next time you take to the waters for non-mer related reasons that you won’t be reduced to splinters.
Formaggio shrugs, not bothering to look up from the basket. “Capo has a system. What ships can pass through, which ones that can’t, and tagging the ones worth hitting.” Somehow you suspect that there’s more to it than that, but if there is, Formaggio makes no effort to elaborate.
He pauses to pop a grape between sharp teeth, chewing thoughtfully before adding, as if as an afterthought, “Besides, they know which mark to look for.”
That gets your attention; you straighten up in your seat. “Mark? What mark?” you prod for more, and now it’s Formaggio’s turn to look confused, tilting his head.
“How else did you think you were staying protected without me?”
As if to set an example, Formaggio drags his knuckles against the railing, that same knock-scrape motion you’ve heard him make when he boards your ship. His nails catch on the surface, and even a light graze is enough to leave the beginnings of a faint gouge. The lightbulb goes off and your expression twists, mouth dropping agape as you scramble for portside.
He didn’t. He wouldn’t-
“That’s what you’ve been doing to my boat?!”
Of course you can’t make out anything below the waves no matter how far you stretch. Only the sloshing saltwater, lapping languidly at the sides and distorting the view of the boat, are all you can make out; but that doesn’t make you any less indignant about the fact that he marked up your beloved vessel.
Formaggio tuts as though the answer had been obvious, smacking a webbed hand to the deck. “Relax, amica; it’s not like it’ll sink your stuzzicadenti. Solid stuff, for a human ship.”
“I can’t believe you-!”
Running a hand down your face, it takes a deep breath and a whole lot of patience you don’t have to not cuss him out. Your groan through gritted teeth doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest; in fact, the lull in conversation means that he can focus on what he deems far more important.
Formaggio turns his attention back to what’s left in the basket, picking apart a cold cut with his claws and tilting his head back to drop the shreds into his open maw while you stifle the urge to toss him overboard.
Would it do anything but piss him off? No. Would it still make you feel better? Definitely.
Gradually, the panic along with the frustration subsides, and you return to sinking into your chair.
“I…guess I can live with that.” albeit reluctantly. “So long as they’re okay with that too.”
Silence, which around Formaggio typically doesn’t exist. “...They are still okay with that, right?”
Formaggio doesn't answer, too invested in picking some leftover bits from his teeth with one of his nails. Your frown deepens, and you hunch over in your seat, hands clasped.
“Mag-”
“Relax, relax!” your concern is waved off again, his response too quick. “I vouched for you, right? We’re good.”
Good god. Your blood pressure is going to get you before anything else if he keeps this up.
“I mean…” Formaggio trails off, choosing his next words carefully. “Ris has been getting tense recently. Something’s brewing south that he says is too close for comfort.”
That…doesn’t sound good. At all. What the hell is he talking about? The expression on your face must give away the apprehension stewing, as just like that he’s twisting to face you fully, tail slapping up another spritz of water across your legs that you don’t so much as flinch at. He’s grinning again, but it’s obvious from the twitching in his tail that he’s just trying to play off the serious territory your conversation had been about to stray into.
“Nothing for you to worry about, yeah? We’ll handle it!”
Aaaand just like that the stress is back again.
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
Your knowledge is limited, from bits and pieces that the mer has let slip around you. (you guess you’re a confidante now???) Apparently there was some sort of territory dispute going on between all of the pods that called this minute corner of the world their home. Formaggio’s group's last bid to expand had gotten two of their podmates gravely wounded - alive, but barely just - and the rest of the team had been forced to drop back to recuperate the loss.
Who or what could have done that? Formaggio’s nothing to scoff at, dwarfing even the tallest human you know. So the thought of something being able to leave two as big as him on death’s door sends a burning chill straight through you.
“Tch-”
You blink, centering your focus back to Formaggio who wags a finger at you with all the exasperation of chiding a child.
“There it is. I told you not to worry.”
Indignant, you glower at him, “I’m not worrying.”
“Tell that to your eyebrows.”
On instinct you clap a hand across your forehead, but you’ve already lost. Shit, you really don’t like admitting that he’s right - he’ll hold it over you for weeks.
Formaggio laughs at his own teasing, shaking his head with a fond exhale. “So easy to rile up. You know, you could give Ghia some stiff competition. Sure he’d freeze your ass off, but hey, you’d probably make the others’ day!”
The mention of his podmate provides a momentary reprieve from his poking fun; you’re quick to jump on it.
“Could I?” you cut in, voice firm. “Meet the others, I mean.”
The shift in conversation is abrupt - it’s the first time you’ve been bold enough to ask him outright. Formaggio hums, expression suddenly pensive. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the railing, eyes trained skyward eyeing what few clouds crawl across the vast expanse overhead. And for a time all you can hear is your own pulse, and the gurgling of the waves undulating softly; you can’t bring yourself to cut in - to take your request back, or crack a joke, or even breathe too loudly. You merely watch the shark mer with a dawning realization.
Holy shit, he’s actually considering it.
And giving it some serious thought, too, with the way his brows knit together as he strokes along the cut of his jaw.
When Formaggio finally, finally answers, you release a breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding.
“I suppose I could convince Illuso to come if he’s in a good mood. Stroke his ego, though. It’ll be better for you if you get on his good side; he’s not as good with people as yours truly.”
Yeesh, if he’s the social one what are your chances here? You don’t voice that aloud though, settling for just nodding along. He continues, “Play it like you mean it and you’ll be fine. Now, Melone…” Formaggio halts and makes a face, nose scrunching up in discomfort. “He’s got a…thing about humans.”
“A thing?”
“Yeah it’s a whole thing - merda, especially with the legs-”
“Don’t.” you stop him there, wishing that you could go back five seconds to save yourself from the mental image that conjures. “On second thought I don’t want to know.”
Formaggio nods sagely - understanding your pain all too well. “Smart choice.”
There’s another lull, and this time you’re the one to start pitching candidates - racking your brain for names.
“What about Ghiaccio? Or Prosciutto?”
Formaggio bellows a laugh at that, loud enough that you jump in your seat staring wide-eyed watching him throw his head back. Another blink and his face is deadpan, making a slicing gesture across his throat with the flat of his hand.
“Yeah, no chance. He’s foul enough with the heat, never mind throwing a human at him. I was serious about him freezing your ass off, and I’m guessing you can’t grow any of those back." He gives a vague motion towards your limbs and despite the scorching heat the mere mention of it makes you shudder.
Well, that’s a firm no if you’ve ever heard it. Safe to say meeting Ghiaccio just tanked on your list of priorities.
“Prosciutto? Maybe, but then you’d have to deal with Pesci too. That guy follows him around like a suckerfish, and he can be a real pain. You’d probably scare the shit out of him, honestly. Ris could probably-ah, no. On second thought he might scare you off - size and all.”
Alright, that’s it. “Size?!” you balk, “Jesus christ, ‘Maggio. Is there anyone you know who isn’t a behemoth?”
Or isn’t questionably freaky, for that matter. That question you keep to yourself.
He snorts, hands shooting up in mock surrender. “Hey, you asked. Consider it a friendly warning - in case you’re serious.”
If his goal was to thoroughly disabuse you of the idea of meeting any other mer for the sake of self preservation then he’s knocked it out of the park. You slump back with a long exhale, as though pushing every ounce of air from your lungs will somehow undo the mental anguish that Formaggio has an uncanny knack for inflicting on you. When it doesn’t, you settle for basking in the sunlight, limbs splayed out to take full advantage of the heat you’ll no doubt be regretting later.
Too bad you neglected to account for the present company.
“Well, since you brought it up, when are you going to introduce me to your pod?”
…Huh?
You crack an eye open to squint at him, head cocked, “I…don’t have one?”
Looks like that was the wrong answer, from the look the merman gives you. “Sure you do. There’s plenty of you humans down by the water every day; why not put in a good word for me?”
“That’s not the same, ‘Maggio, - they’re…” Damn, how do you go about explaining this in a way that isn’t going to end up confusing the both of you?
Formaggio takes that as his cue. The deck squeaks as he shifts around with a deceptive speed, using the guard rails to pull himself closer to you. He’s already taking up most of the stern’s space on your dinky little boat, but once you’re face to face your entire field of view is full of nothing but orange and silver and bronze and that lazy shit-eating grin.
“You wanted to see mine, and I want to see yours. A fair trade, right?”
Okay, now he’s back to just messing with you. He’s got no intentions of going shoreside, but pulling your leg about it to see you sweat? That’s got Formaggio all over it.
Well two can play at that game.
“You know what? You’re right - I think you’d be a real celebrity to people back on land.”
Formaggio looks pleasantly surprised, moreso that you agreed with him, and his expression blanks for a beat gauging if he heard you right. A hand braces against your knee to keep himself upright, making your chair groan under the added weight as he leans in. Though the sun has done plenty to soak up the excess moisture the webs between his fingers are still damp and tepid to the touch.
You try not to think too hard about how weird the membrane against the skin of your leg feels, and especially don’t think about how the cool scales in contrast to your own overheating flesh is actually kind of nice. You focus instead on meeting Formaggio’s eyes as he quirks an angled brow, his grin splitting at his cheeks.
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “Mhm - got a couple of guards down by the docks who would just love an introduction.”
The excitement drops from his face as fast as the glee rises to yours, his smile flattening to a frown. Green eyes narrow into slits - clearly he didn’t find it as funny to have the tables turned back on him.
“You’re no fun.”
“What? I could put in a good word for you!” you cast your reach wide, arms outstretched with a mock gasp. “Oh, I get it - if the nonnas are more your taste I can always ask Ms. Abbatini what her thoughts are on fish-”
“You little shi-”
That does it. In a second you’ve got a sneering muscled mer tussling with you, clawed hands pinching your cheeks and rattling the arm rests. There’s no actual intent to harm you - you’d be dead three times over if you didn’t know for a fact that Formaggio got a kick out of the back and forth banter.
The extent of his malice is limited to swiping your chair in the hopes of knocking you flat on your ass. In retaliation you brace both feet against the nearest solid surface, refusing to budge and overconfident that your leg up on the shark is more than enough to keep steady.
That is until you feel a sharp tilt - and it’s not the chair. You hadn’t even noticed that Formaggio had shifted his weight to the one side of the deck in the midst of your play fighting. Surely that wasn’t on purpose-
But his broad grin says otherwise. Oh, you’re going to kill him-
“FORMAGGIO, THE BOAT-”
It’s too late. Formaggio’s triumphant cackles drown out your shrieks of “cheater!” as a torrent of sea water gushes on board, drowning every dry inch of flooring and dragging out everything not nailed down as its spoils, your poor chair and you included.
Just your luck. Is the ‘protection’ from this guy really worth all this trouble? You’re still debating it as a blur of orange and ash dives in after you, looking all too smug for a guy who’s using the ocean to win.
your michie fics and more specifically the werewolf one have altered my brain chemistry irreversibly. instead of frontal lobe there is werewolf michie.
Take your time with writing but any updates for the next chapter?
IM SORRY IM HALFWAY THROUGH I HAD MY NIECES TO BABYSIT FOR LIKE OVER A WEEK BUT IM FINALLY FREE PLEASE BE PATIENT AND ACCEPT THIS SNEAK PEAK AS AN APOLOGY
Hey, weird question but could you talk about how you characterize Max and how you view him as a character in general?
Im trying to write him for a personal thing and I can't get him quite right and it's actually starting to piss me off (which is the exact opposite effect this is supposed to have!! This is supposed to make me feel better 😭😭) And you write him incredibly well and I'd love advice from you!!-
THIS IS AN OPEN INVITATION TO YAP ABOUT MAX IN GENERAL, GO CRAZY I WANNA HEAR ABOUT YOUR HEADCANONS AND ANY THOUGHTS YOU HAVE MY FRIEND
BABES I THINK YOU'LL NEED TO DM ME BECAUSE I'M STRUGGLING WITH ARTICULATING HOW I WRITE MAX BESIDES HIMBO AND BISEXUAL KING WITH TRAUMA BUT I'M WILLING TO THROW WHAT I HAVE AT YOU
She's a perfect mix of her abby camp personality and her NPMD personality! I love how like.. smug(??) you make her! I'm partially through chapter 16 of the werewolf max fic and I LOVE HER.
The bits of Stephgrace you sprinkle in are also great.
I STILL NEED TO WATCH THE NIGHTMARE TIME STUFF SO I WAS WORRIED I WOULDN'T GET HER FULL CHARACTER BUT I LOVE HER SHE IS MY WIFE I AM ON MY KNEES FOR HER
STEPHGRACE SUPREMACY THEY'RE ALL TOO SHIPPABLE GODDAMIT
