#I draw pitchfork with red eyes

[starrysymphonies]

I’m hilarious guys I know /s

[slowbison]

Bottom! Leon S. Kennedy x Top! Male Reader

Summary: Leon had been caught off guard and got hurt in the process. Running out of supplies, you come across the merchant who offers a questionable solution which you take, in an effort to help Leon. Later on, he notices something rather wet staining his shirt. Coming from his nipples.

words: 2.3k

warnings: male lactation, praising, frottage, hand jobs

Heavy footsteps echoed behind you as you frantically scanned the area for any temporary shelter. Your eyes landed on a dilapidated home in the near distance that looked good enough to barricade. Determination set across your face, you adjusted your hold on the blonde man next to your waist and rushed forwards, until a familiar gravely voice rang out to you.

“Hey there stranger, got a couple of goodies in stock. C’mere and take a look” the shadowy man called, signaling over to his makeshift booth.

“Now’s not the time, I’ll come back later if I can. There’s a whole swarm behind me, I suggest that you leave.” You warned, sounds of angry grumbling and footsteps slowly approaching. The man laughed and opened up his trench coat, revealing a series of ammo, guns, bombs, and a mysterious red liquid vial.

“C’mon now, how do ya expect to protect the lad on yer shoulder if ya ain’t got the gear or the fixing’s?” The merchant asked, eyeing the unconscious blonde man whose breathing turned ragged, quiet groans slipping out. Your mind started racing as you recalled your dwindling supply of herbs and the last few shots that were left in your gun, firing so many at the villagers behind that just seemed never ending.

The merchant sensing your conflict chirped up “Since you’ve been a rather generous paying customer, I’ll give this to yer for free,” grabbing the small red vial from his pocket into the air for you to take. You eyed it suspiciously as he had never had this in stock during your sudden run-ins with each other and asked for a description.

“It’s an experimental drug of mine that I’ve been whiffing up, guaranteed to heal major wounds. It ain’t gonna kill ya if that’s whatcha worried about, heheh.” You eyed it some more before, a loud whine came from your side. As the man began jerking in pain, holding onto his side with a piece of cloth, a slight hint of blood shining. Earlier, he had made the mistake of letting his guard down at an old villager that jabbed a pitchfork at him, you axed the grandma in the head for that. Pocketing the vial, you threw out a handful of Pesetas, pointing at some ammo and few grenades since no herbs were available.

The merchant happily gave them out to you, scooping up the money before nodding at you. “Pleasure doing business stranger, wish yer all the best.” Disappearing into the woods soon after, forging for supplies to sell at the next encounter. You readjust your hold and resumed a fast pace to the for-mentioned home.

Reaching at the entrance, you swung it open and scanned around the room. It was a bit shabby, but so were all the homes in this insane village. The floors were slightly cracked along with walls, there were a few pieces of furniture that still seemed functional and a decent looking bed sat in the corner. Dropping him off at the bed, you went to the side of the door and grabbed the wardrobe, pushing it in-front of the door. You closed the window next to the bed using a piece of wood on the floor, hammering it shut with some nails. Though you were tempted to light the furnace for some heat, it would draw unwanted attention which was the last thing you wanted right now.

Soft groaning could be heard from the bed at your side as you put down the hammer on a dresser, rushing to the man’s side. Leon’s face was scrunched up in pain from the stab wound, still slowly leaking blood. You lifted his head into your arms, gently shushing him and dug your hands into your pocket for the vial. “Hey, it’s alright Leon, I’ve got you okay? Just hang on for me love.” You bit at the cork sealing the vial - spitting it in some corner and brought it to Leon’s mouth. “Open up darling, this will help the pain… I hope” You whispered, tilting it up as the liquid creeped into his mouth.

The taste wasn’t ideal, but it held a soft cherry taste with a bit of a burn which led to a heaved cough. “You did good Leon, always good for me” You praised, caressing the side of his face watching as his complexion became better thanks to the drug, noting to give a nice tip for the merchant later.

You moved to the wall facing the bed and rearranged your positions with his chest in your lap, head cradled in your arms. You stilled, hearing the sounds of multiple footsteps outside the boarded window, torch light creeping at the corners. The villagers growled and lingered around the house before taking off at the sound of a distant noise, yelling along the way.

Letting out a relaxed breath that you didn’t realize you were holding, glanced down at the man in your arms and ran your hand in his hair. “I won’t let them near you, so take a nice nap for me.” You whispered, kissing the top of his head. Leon cuddled closer to you, breathing finally stabilized and the wound seemingly disappeared. You smiled and drummed your fingers on his chest, keeping watch over the sleeping man.

Sometime later, Leon groggily woke up with a slight hint of red dusting his cheeks. “Ugh, I feel like I was stabbed by something.” He grumbled, rubbing his hand on his head. You chuckled, lifting his head up to peck his lips, “That’s cause you were, got a free drug thing from the merchant while we were coming here.”

Leon gave you an incredulous look.

“You gave me some random drug from the merchant? Much less free?”

You nervously smiled, playing with a curl in his hair, “He said it wouldn’t kill you, plus there isn’t enough herbs that could’ve helped.” Leon raised his head slightly, squinting at your face as you continued, “On the bright side it worked didn’t it?”

He sighed, falling back to your arms and closed his eyes. “Is there also a reason why my chest is wet?” he muttered, turning to face you. A confused look crossed your face as you looked down at the wet spots donning his shirt around the nipples. “Well he did say it was experimental…” You muttered, lifting a hand to squeeze the pec. A low moan escaped from Leon, slapping a hand on his mouth before batting your hand away.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” He hissed, more liquid staining his shirt.

“Examining your chest, now if you would kindly cooperate with me agent” You said, tugging at the straps for him to help remove. Leon reluctantly sits up to straddle your thighs and removes the holster, tugging up at his shirt to reveal two puffy nipples that dripped with white substance and a much rounder chest than usual. Grinning at the embarrassed look he gave you. “The assessment won’t take long now, be good until then.”

Leon quietly grumbled as you moved closer to his chest, grabbing at his pec once again — giving it a good squeeze. Leon let out a choked moan at the action and unknowingly pressed his chest closer to your palm. The sounds he made as you gently massaged the right swollen pec went straight to your dick which made you even more curious…

You latched onto his left nipple and sucked, relishing at the savory taste that flowed in your mouth, letting out a pleased groan. Sensing slight relief from his chest, he whined and locked his fingers in your hair - pulling you closer before feeling your hard dick against his own.

“You- you’re enjoying this” He said, face flushed.

You released the puffy nipple with a soft pop, flicking your tongue to catch any remaining drops. Grinning up at him.

“We’ve gotta make the best out of this situation and I’m willing to take the fall” You said, licking your lips. “Besides, you seem to be enjoying this just as much as me.” Leon, embarrassed, looks away before straightening his back and jutting out his chest. “Then hurry up… don’t just stare, do something.” He refused to admit that he found you feeding from him rather hot and boner inducing, as the grip on your hair got tighter. The thought of you fucking him while suckling milk from his teats spurring him on, whimpering at the the idea.

“With pleasure, love.” You chuckled, leaning in to resume your suckling at the nub, flavor bursting in your mouth. Leon threw his head back moaning, rolling his hips against yours, cock straining painfully in his pants. You could feel your head getting fuzzy, switching to the right nipple when you couldn’t suckle anymore milk while returning the man’s eager grinding with your own rocking.

The taste was absolutely heavenly and you could definitely get addicted to the taste, perhaps already so as you pulled more into your mouth, cock leaking in your pants. Leon whines were a mixture of relief and want, begging for more friction.

“Please, I-I need more, fuck please touch me,” He begged, humping helplessly on your crotch.

You dug your hands into his pants blindly going as you refused to leave his chest, fumbling to unbuckle his belt. Slipping a hand passed his underwear, pulling it down to free his leaking cock, doing the same for your own matching prick. Bringing them together with one hand, you set a rather fast pace — using the pre cum as lube.

Leon sobbed at the feeling, squirming as he could feel himself nearing his orgasm. Your hold on hips got stronger, thrusting faster and more slippery as you neared yourself as well. There were a few drops of milk left that you savored, swirling your tongue around the bud hoping to ease more out, releasing the sensitive areola when you couldn’t pull anymore.

You settled for kissing and marking his chest, focusing on drawing out more noises from the blonde. Who whined, tears prickling in the corner of his eyes. “More, ah- I’m close.. mhpm, please keep going.” He cried, losing himself more in the pleasure. You moved from his chest to his neck, trailing up to his jaw before attacking his lips, devouring his moans.

He could taste himself in your mouth, finding it odd, but it didn’t stop him from fucking your hand more. You felt yourself nearing eruption and wrapped your hand tighter, moving to whisper into his ear, “My good boy, waiting for me. You can cum love.”

Leon let out a broken moan, spilling into your hand and onto his torso, cock twitching as he lightly humped your hand. You followed soon after, mixing your release with his — cum trailing down your hand. Chest heaving, Leon draped himself over you, head resting at your shoulder. You kissed his nape as you wiped the cum on the sheets, tucking yourself and him back in your pants.

Running circles on his back, waiting for his breathing to stabilize before speaking. “We have to keep moving, love. They’ll be back with possibly more.”

Leon sighed, nuzzling your neck before moving to stand, fixing his shirt and putting his holster back on. “Well let’s get moving then, the sooner the better I guess,” he grumbled.

You followed after him, wrapping your arms around his waist and kissing the back of his neck as a silent apology. He turned to kiss you properly before breaking and going to push the wardrobe blocking the door.

Carefully making your way outside, you traversed through the village and onto a beaten down log path in the woods. Coming up to the entrance of a desolate church, killing a few villagers as you made your way further in. In the distance there was a fickle purple flame that grew brighter as you got closer.

“‘Ello strangers, good to see ya.” The merchant greeted, eyeing the now conscious blonde. “Glad to see you’re still kicking, last I seen ya, you were as sick as a dog. Good to see the puppy back at full health heheh.”

“Very funny, now do you want to do some business or not?” Leon rolled his eyes and scanned the items the merchant had in stock, purchasing a few before walking over to stand at the church door.

You walked up buying a few before dropping in low voice, one where Leon couldn’t hear you. “So uh, about that experimental drug of yours… got anymore in the back,” throwing some extra pesetas on the table. Though you couldn’t see it, the merchant grinned, understanding the implication and opened a hidden pocket with the same red vial from before.

“Do hope it meets your desires, stranger.” He chuckled, slipping it into your hands as you stealthily tucked it in your pocket.

“Hey what’s the hold up?” Leon yelled, raising a brow at the both of you. The merchant let out a deep laugh before waving him away. You nodded at him before walking over to Leon, patting his shoulder.

“Let’s go in, wouldn’t want to miss out on any action” You purred, leaving a puzzled Leon who trudged behind you.

“What did you buy?”

“Oh nothing really, just a little treat was all.”

“Yeah that’s totally not something to be worried about at all.”

“Haha, don’t worry about it love, you’ll love it. Trust me.”

Leon blushed and bit his lip, guessing what it may be and definitely tried not to think about it again. You grinned watching the blonde in the corner of your eye, playing with the vial in your pocket. You couldn’t wait to give it to him.

a/n: hey y'all, finally dropped the leon fic (yippie). hope y'all enjoyed this one, kinda proud of this one honestly and gyaatt damn, have y'all have been sweet to me with all the praises for my last miguel o'hara fic. got some more on that cooking, i see your requests and it got me giggling and kickin feeties n' shit. working on those after this, got a structure down on that. also i'm in the process of making a masterlist for y'all to easily go through my stuff, i never thought i would write as much as i do, but it's been real fun. i will say that after like 4 more drops (requests included), i'm gonna take a short break. anyways that's all for now.

up next: miguel wears a collar with a bell and you fuck him???. whatttt. teehee.

[anonymousewrites]

Adolescent Antichrist Halloween Special 2023

Father Figure! Lucifer x Teen! Reader

            “Happy Halloween!” said Em to (Y/N) as they walked into the room before they headed to the party they were invited to.

            “Happy Halloween,” said (Y/N). They grinned at Em. “Wearing your demon face, I see.”

            Em shrugged. The side of her face was scarred and a map of red designs, bloodlike but beautiful. They wore an array of black and red, the fabric deliberately torn and shredded to add to her scary appearance.

            “I have to work with what I’ve got,” said Em.

            “Ah, there you two are!” said Lucifer, rounding the corner. “Are you ready to go?”

            “Yep,” said (Y/N), nodding.

            Lucifer looked at them and cocked his head. “What are you dressed up as?”

            “Jack Kline from Supernatural,” said (Y/N). They grinned and gestured to their white t-shirt and tan jacket. It was simple, but the addition of gold contact lenses, the casual costume was complete.

            “Jack Kline?” repeated Lucifer.

            “He’s Lucifer’s son, the antichrist,” said Em.

            (Y/N) grinned as Lucifer nearly groaned at the irony of their choice. “Would you have preferred I dress as the stereotypical devil, horns and pitchfork and all that?”

            Lucifer sighed. “Anything but that.”

            (Y/N) chuckled. “Alright, then, we have to go. We’ll see you tonight.”

            “Be safe, okay? I run a club. I know what can happen at parties,” said Lucifer.

            “Yeah, yeah, we both know I’m more responsible than you,” said (Y/N), waving a hand before heading into the elevator.

            Lucifer couldn’t argue with that. (Y/N) was definitely more responsible than him.

l

            (Y/N) and Em walked into Noa’s house where the party was in full swing. Various people from school were milling about in different costumes, some sexy, some silly, some scary.

            “Em, (Y/N)!” called Noa, walking over. They were in a pirate outfit with an eyepatch and hat tipped back over their box braids with gold beads hanging at the end. “You two look so cool.” Noa smirked at (Y/N)’s outfit and the drawing of the anti-possession tattoo they had on their collarbone. “Playing off Lucifer being your dad?”

            (Y/N) almost reminded Noa he was just their foster father, but they liked being connected to him so they let it be. “It was between Jack and Sabrina the teenage witch.”

            “I love it,” said Noa. They smiled at Em. “And Em going with the scary demon look. Fantastic makeup application.”

            “All natural,” said Em, and (Y/N) rolled their eyes at the play on words.

            “Ah! You guys arrived!” Olive appeared behind Noa, dressed in a short pink dress with a layered skirt of blue and purple strips. Small flowers were pinned across the bodies and waistline, and a pair of wings were strapped to her back. She was a fairy, and it fit very well with her.

            “Hey, Olive,” said (Y/N) and Em.

            “We just need to grab Marcel and Leon and then we’ll have the entire group together,” said Olive.

            “You mean you haven’t found them? I thought you were tracking everyone down,” said Noa.

            Olive pouted. “I got distracted.”

            “Yeah, by the ‘Monster Mash,’ ” teased Noa.

            Olive shrugged. “I like dancing.” She put her hands on her hips. “But come on, we’ve got to get the LGBTQ+ Breakfast Club together again.”

            “You’re never letting us live that name down, are you?” said Leon, appearing behind her.

            “Leon! We found you,” said Olive, smiling.

            Leon raised an eyebrow. “No, we found you,” they said.

            “No one can miss Olive,” said Marcel from beside Leon.

            Leon was dressed in black trousers and a vest overtop a white button-up. Over that he had a beige jacket and a long black coat. In their hands, he held a stuffed animal of a raccoon.

            “Are you Poe from Bungou Stray Dogs?” said (Y/N), smiling.

            Leon shrugged. “I like the show, and I like Poe’s stories.”

            “I’m pretty sure Leon is the truest academic here,” said Marcel. “The rest of us just mess around.”

            “Someone has to focus,” said Leon wryly, but he looked at Marcel fondly at the compliment.

            Marcel had his hair changed from purple to pink and wore a turquoise school uniform. Two barrettes with pink spheres were clipped into his hair, and he wore green sunglasses.

            “Oh, you’re Saiki K,” said Em brightly. “I like that show. It shows how silly humans can be.”

            Marcel nodded, and after knowing Em for a while, no one thought it strange that she referred to people as “humans.” (Y/N) just sighed. Em still wasn’t great at blending in.

            “A pirate, Saiki, Poe, a fairy, Jack Kline, and a demon,” said Olive, looking at all of them. “This is very fitting for our group.”

            “Feels that way,” said (Y/N), smiling.

            As they spoke, “You Make Me Feel Like It’s Halloween” by Muse started playing. (Y/N) grinned.

            “This is for me, isn’t it?” they said.

            “Hey, Muse is fun, and it’s a good song,” said Nao. “But yeah.”

            “Let’s go and dance!” said Olive. She looped her arm around Nao’s and dragged them towards the dance floor.

            Marcel tapped Leon’s arm, and they headed after the other two. (Y/N) and Em were the last two to go.

            “Ready?” said (Y/N).

            “To have fun with you? Of course,” said Em, smiling at them and jokingly offering her arm.

            (Y/N) felt heat go to their cheeks as Em smiled at them. They averted their eyes and hurried to the dance floor, leaving Em to chuckle at their embarrassment.

Taglist:

@sammyscreencaps-13

@grippleback-galaxy-galaxy

@scarlettqueen190

@ziro-the-null-god

@sammy-13

@zeros-rot

@ceridwyn3

@technikerin23

@poetoflawed

@slytherinroyalty16

@ilse235

[rallentando1011]

Risetober 2023: Day 5 - Future

The neon lights of buildings illuminated the city streets all the way up to the smoggy blue-gray sky. Skyscrapers, headquarters of corporations, apartment complexes, food carts, ways to make a living of all shapes and kinds were erected as far as the eye could see.

A brisk breeze carried up the scents and sounds: dulcet confections and happy chatter, overflowing dumpsters and swarming traffic. Not all of it was pretty but, hey, it’s part of the charm.

Only months prior, the streets were covered in alien biogrowth, a daunting technodrome hovering above the chaos and destruction and death it caused. The Krang pursued the eradication of the city, humanity, life on the planet, all of it. That outcome was narrowly avoided due to the effort and sacrifice of the Hamato clan.

So, Raph figured as he sat by his lonesome on the roof of some laundromat, he should let himself enjoy the minutiae he fought to preserve, the sight and sounds and scents. No matter how grim the city could be at times, it always had a certain beauty to it, an appeal reeling in his thoughts like metal to a magnet.

Raph sighed wistfully as he gazed around him at the surrounding towers of buildings. Apartments filled to the brim with families or students, people walking along the streets and entering family-owned stores filled with all sorts of autumn-themed treats and content customers, even just the sidewalks covered in civilians, all of them ants from Raph’s perspective.

All of their actions were so mundane yet alluring, and none of it was meant for him or his brothers.

He means, mutant turtles? Strutting along the streets of New York City? Yeah, that chance.

Sure, he went out in costume every now and then and experienced some semblance of normalcy to buy necessities (“necessities” being stuffed animals from Teddy Bear Town), but it wasn’t the same. Every moment he spent down there in some contrived disguise was nerve-wracking, spent being petrified of being found out or going into the proximity of something with peanut butter.

Despite not having the liberties of many people, his family had other things they didn’t have. Entering the mall late at night when no one else’s out, rooftop patrols and trips like the one he was on, not having to pay rent or electric while living in the sewers.

Sure, it wasn’t the most ideal situation, but he loved it nonetheless. Even with the low acceptance of the people, he always felt honored to fight to protect his town, and what a town at that. He wanted to change something about it, but the last time he tried to alter the public’s opinion of him and his brothers, the public gathered at City Hall with pitchforks, literal pitchforks, in Midtown Manhattan.

The red-clad snapping turtle looked back to the sky and glimmering edifices around him. He wouldn’t give up defending the city and its people for anything in the world, even if most didn’t accept him or his brothers.

But, in the future, he could only hope that for such a big city, his family wouldn’t have as little opportunities.

(@sariphantom I interpreted this prompt as thinking about the future bc drawing the future boys scares me 😉 also sorta odd thing but clicking on the images makes them clearer)

[esperanzagalaxy]

 i was going to post something else but this was in my drafts and uh. um, here it is, i guess. twitter doodles of varying quality!

 i cannot FUCKIN remember the context for farmer zolf, But the second one came from wondering what it would have been like if cel and zolf had also been part of the bodyswap during the airship arc and i was like ‘’haha what if hamid ended in zolf’s body’’ and kind of. completely destroyed my brain so. there he is,

 anyway enjoy, if such a thing is possible with these

[ID: two digital doodles. the first is of zolf as a farmer, from the waist up. he’s wearing a cowboy hat, a blue plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a denim overall. he’s got a wheat straw on his mouth and has a disgruntled expression. he’s white, robust, has green eyes and blond hair. his beard is done in two braids and the rest is loose behind his back. he’s pulling on a strap of the overall with his right thumb and is holding a pitchfork over his shoulder in his other hand. it’s drawn with warm brown lines and colored only where the shadows would be, the rest is white. a speech bubble written in red says ‘’yee-blomin’-haw’’.

 the second drawing is of hamid in zolf’s body. it’s drawn with sketchy black lines and colored in flatly, with some rendering on the shadows. he’s shown from the hips up, left hand on his hip and right holding hamid’s purple robe over his shoulder. he’s strong and fat, smirking and posing confidently. his short white hair is slicked back, his beard is done in two fishtail braids, and the mustache has a bit of a handlebar curl to it. he’s wearing a black button-up with rolled-up sleeves, a blue vest, and a gold cravat is partially visible beneath the beard. he’s got winged eyeliner and his eyeshadow and lipstick are blue. there’s a beauty spot to the side of his left eye. his arms are tattooed and there’s cartoon sparkles around his head. the background is flat and mauve. end ID]

[azure-blaze92]

Here is a small sneak peek at Ch 9

...Caleb put down his pitchfork and walked out of the barn to see a girl wearing a green dress standing by Mr.Millis. Caleb couldn’t help but blush a bit at her ivy-colored eyes and her chestnut brown hair that poked out from beneath her bonnet. 

“Sir?” Caleb responded.

“Come meet my niece. She is staying with me until the summer.” 

“So you're the boy, uncle has told me about. It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Cecilia Freeman. And what may yours be?” She smiled at him. 

“I am Caleb, Caleb Wittebane. It's a pleasure to meet you. Ms. Cecilia.”  He answered, trying not to stumble over his own words.

“You don’t have to be that proper, and who's that sitting by the barn?" She said, looking behind Caleb to see Philip sitting there, busy drawing in his journal. 

“Oh, that’s my younger brother. Philip, come here for a second!” Caleb called. Philip looked up, put his journal down, and walked over to meet Caleb.  “Come meet Mr. Millis's niece.”  

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Philip,” she said. Philip just looked at her.

“Philip, don’t be rude."  

“It's a pleasure to meet you, too," Philip responded before turning his back and walking back to the barn.

“Philip.” Caleb sighed, “I’m sorry, he’s usually not like that.” 

“It's quite alright, Caleb. Hes probably just shy. Well, I mustn’t keep you from your work. It was a pleasure to meet you. Oh, would you like to show me around town once you're done for the day? If you are not too busy.” She smiled. Caleb could feel his face turn bright red. 

“I would be more than happy to.” Caleb smiled back before returning to the barn to finish cleaning the stalls.  He stopped and looked at Philip. “Philip. Would you mind taking the food home? I want to show Cecilia around town after work." Caleb asked.  He watched as Philip rolled his eyes. “ Philip, don’t be like that. She's new, and she's going to be staying for a few months. It's the least I can do.” He said.

He watched as Philip raised an eyebrow at him. “ Fine, don’t be too long, though. You promised me we would go star gazing tonight.” 

“ I won’t, I promise,” Caleb reassured his brother, ruffling his hair before entering the barn. As Caleb picked up his pitchfork and as he did, he felt a smile creep across his face, thinking about his small exchange with Cecilia, and at that moment, he felt lighter as his heart fluttered in his chest...

AN:

Nothing bad will happen to her right?... 👀

[bootleg-sara]

The next batch of AU lads! A couple of fan favorites here today, starting Judas, Eve, and Samson. We got a three lad special today, very exciting. It's hard to tell, but Judas' eyes do have a tint of red to them.

I do want to mention, while I call it a halo for simplicity sake, all halos that humans have are different from the ones angel’s have. A human halo is called a Crown.

Got no other intro stuff to talk about lol

Character bios, more doodles, and a small blog update undercut

Judas: Voice claim- Fire by That Handsome devil

One of the worst people in all of hell, only being beaten by Lucifer himself. So you know you're in for something special.

Judas what I can best describe as a prick. He's the son of Adam and Stepson of Eve. He’s extremely manipulative and cunning, being able to make plans that will last over centuries. Judas is cooking up something pretty big, something that he has been planning and working towards ever since he was still in the Garden of Eden. He doesn’t bother much with trying to keep up a “good guy” persona, as everyone knows him for being a shitbag. So instead he works his way to be as intimidating as possible. His roughly 9 foot stature does help quite a bit. He’ll play with whatever insecurities or goals he knows of. And if by some unlucky chance you end up his target, he’ll scour each and every source he has available to learn of you. Just to be sure he makes whatever punishment he has planned as excruciating as possible.

He may be one of the most powerful people in all of hell, but the dude’s the biggest baby around. If you so much as allude to making fun of him, he’ll have you locked up in a cell and never seen from again. And don’t even think about insulting his family around him. One bad word might just have you dead on the spot. Say anything bad about his dad , Adam, and you’ll surely wish you were dead. Judas needs to be praised constantly, and adores it when people bow to him. If you suck up to him enough, he might just let you off a bit easy. Or not. He takes more than enough joy from making everyone miserable. Any time Judas gets all angsty and upset (which is very often), he’ll run to Eve for comfort. Just don’t walk in and catch him crying, or your just another person on the chopping block. Judas sucks his thumb when extremely stressed out, often biting hard enough to draw blood.

Judas is a particular case when it comes to magic. He’s on old earth soul, meaning he shouldn’t have any at all. But much his his mother, he has the ability to transform. Judas’ transformations are much less limiting than hers. While he can’t use it to impersonate people (any parts of him that are transformed are as black as a void), he can use it for intimidation or combat. He frequently uses his abilities to sneak around in the shadows. Judas is not much of a fighter. He much prefer to bend people backwards with his words or threats. But he can certainly put up a fight if need be. His transformation skills essentially turn him into a black jello, able to move around his organs to avoid any fatal blows. There’s plenty of different ways to be used, and Judas has been able to find quite a few uses for it. The one he uses the most often is for making clones of himself. By transforming his own shadow, he can send out shadow clones to do his bidding. Though these clones are only good for simple tasks or overwhelming opponents. After a really long battle of using his magic, Judas gets the worst full body cramps.

His weapon is not something that is powered by magic. It was something that Azazel gave to him ages ago back in the garden. Normally one would need magic to let the weapon’s swap between forms work. Though Judas has found a personal magic reservoir to power if for him. The pitchfork itself can’t do anything special. It’s a basic weapon, good for keeping people in place when they are moving around to much. But no one knows what the book attached to it is for. Azazel was the one who enchanted the book to be connected to the weapon of it, but he didn’t know what purpose it serves. Judas never uses the book in battle and is never seen with it in the public eye. Azazel just assumes it’s Adam’s old diary that Judas was to much of a baby to split from.

Samson: Voice claim- Military Fashion Show by AND ONE

(This is exactly how I image Samson sounds)

Talk about Samson next in picture order.

Samson’s honestly a really simple dude. All he really wants is to settle down with someone and finally relax after spending his life and afterlife constantly fighting and killing. He certainly takes great pride in it, but it’s all he’s known for. And he really doesn’t like his reputation. Being a 7-8 foot beast of a man and his main claim to fame being all the murder he’s done, everyone is terrified of him. He’s a well known figure around Judas’ city, and no one dares to get in his way. He is Judas’ personal mercenary. Samson gets paid rather handsomely for his work, killing off anyone trying to interrupt Judas’ master plan. He used to do a lot of work with Famine before Famine split off after being tired of Judas. Samson’s not at all a good philosopher, but he likes a good riddle. Though any riddle he attempts to make are nonsensical half the time. He’s very proud of his hair and is so happy he was able to grow it back again after it was cut off the first time.

Samson is pretty wealthy due to Judas’ payments, but rarely ever uses this money. He lives in a small house and really only spends his earnings in good food. He does have a secret room tucked away in his house full of various bones and other such trophies from his toughest battles. His favorite trophies are skulls, but he’ll take anything he can get. From weapons, to jewelry, to anything that can be preserved for a long time. He has a few full skeletons too. Samson taught himself taxidermy, and has gotten pretty good at it. He very affectionately calls this room “The Bone Room”.

Samson was originally a resident of Heaven, being sent there by a personal request from the archangel Jegudiel. However, most of the residents in heaven really didn’t like him. Murder is considered one of the worst sins someone could act upon, and Samson was famous for just that. One angel, along with a small group of other people, chained him up while was asleep and dragged him out to the Dead Man Valleys to have him killed by all the monsters. Obviously, Samson was not pleased when he woke up to the sight of an angel making a speech while he was chained to the floor. Brings back a lot of bad memories. In a blind fit of rage, he broke out of his chains and killed each and every person who was theirs to witness his exile. He wasn’t allowed back into heaven after that.

His weapon has no special properties, but it is very strong and can quickly rip a person apart.

Eve: Voice claim- Headlock by Imogen Heap

Last but certainly not least is Eve. One of the first humans to ever come into existence, shortly following Adam. Though the two wouldn’t meet up until they had both gotten older.

She’s a “take no shit” kind of women. Very laid back and calm, not wishing to get into any sort of altercations. But she will defend herself if someone is out to mock her. Eve hates taking orders from anyone and barely deals with Judas’ constant whining for her attention. She kept a lot of her old motherly habits from when she was raising her family ages ago. Eve’s a very kind soul, not wishing harm on anyone if it can be avoided. At the same time, she’s very snarky and will take the piss every now and again. Her desire to be independent after being treated like dirt in the garden motivates her the most. She currently lives with Judas, but is almost never found in the castle with him. Going out to chat people up all the time. Eve used to party rather frequently, but is currently taking a small break from that life style. Her spiked gauntlets are more for show than fighting. They can leave a nasty scar, but they are rather heavy and inhibit her mobility. Eve never considered herself someone keen on combat, but she’s learned a few tricks to keep people off her back.

Her form as Whore of Babylon was not something Eve had taken taken by choice. It was a curse that Lucifer had placed on her for being “disruptive and continuing her husband’s work”. Of course this was nothing more than an excuse to gain more control over Eve, seeing the perfect opportunity after Adam’s death. Over the centuries, Even has gotten much more control over WoB. She has even learned how to summon/unsummon it at will. The form brings nothing but pain to her and overall chooses to avoid using it. She’ll only ever willing use it when put in a life or death situation. Sometimes it’ll crop up again when in stressful situations, but thankfully those days are not quite as prevalent as they used to be. Eve refuses to ever go near Lucifer again. Worried that because he made the curse, he might able to remove all her progress in a snap and put her back where she started.

What’s their relationship like?

Eve and Judas are a mother and son duo. Eve isn’t Judas’ biological mother, but she has taken him under her wing as her son. They fight and bicker all the time. Can’t seem to get along like they used to. They do help each other out frequently, with both big and small things. Judas’ very unhealthy attachment to Adam makes Eve extremely uncomfortable. She prefers to not think about it. Judas has a powerful need to get back at Lucifer for messing with both Eve and Cain. Eve certainly isn’t going to stop him there, the bitch deserved it. Eve is a voice of reason for Judas, being one of the few people who can disagree with him and not end up in some dank cellar. Judas’ tendency to act in emotions is rather dangerous, and if it wasn’t for Eve so much more people would of been unwilling insisted for his project. Eve worries a lot for Judas. He’s clearly stunned in growth, acting more like a child than a man who’s millennias old. She does so much to try and help him grow, but nothing seems to work. He’s stuck in the past and refuses to let go. Eve has tried to convince him multiple times that his big plan is going much to far, but he won’t listen.

Samson scares the shit out of Judas. Samson was found out in the Dead Man Valleys, surviving for years in a place that was thought to be impossible to last more than a few days in. Eventually Samson’s hiring was made mostly to keep Samson as far away from him as possible. They had a loose buddy relationship. Samson views Judas as a friend, and loves to tussle around with him. Judas definitely doesn’t see Samson as a friend, but tolerates Samson’s acts of friendship to avoid getting on his bad side. Eve and Samson don’t really have much of a connection. They’ve met a few times and are in good terms with one another, but don’t regularly go out to meet each other. Samson appreciates Eve a lot for not being afraid around him.

Yaaay some of my favorite characters!!! I’m so glad to have these out. Hope you like them as much as you do.

With July approaching soon, Purgatory AU posts are going to be paused on so I can focus on art fight! I may make a few more based post (either explaining some fallen angel/demon stuff or a short post about what halos/crowns are) but I won’t be starting to post the next comic until after I finish art fight. I know I’m silly and I les on mentioning it, but I’m really excited and I think it’ll be a lot of fun!

I won’t stop posting entirely, but posts will slow down. (My birthday is coming up here soon this July (; ) So yeah, there’s the update I guess lol. Thank you all for reading ^^

[heximagines]

Bestie I have my permit test tomorrow can I please have severen content for good luck. 🥺

Yeah for sure! Best of luck dude. I know it's nerve wracking but you'll do great. How about some fluff? ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Your eyes darted between Severen and the page you'd ripped out from a stray magazine. It was a Marlboro add with a red background, perfect for your idea. You had to dig around in your bag before pulling out a sharpie. Uncapping it with your teeth you quickly set to work, eyes darting between Severen's profile and the glossy paper as you drew. Eventually he felt your gaze burning into the side of his face and turned to look at you. When he caught you staring he flashed you a wink and smirked but your eyes only darted back down to your paper, adding a line here and a curve there. After a moment he realized that you were drawing him. He jumped up quick as a flash but you saw him coming. You kicked your foot out and held him at bay with it. "No, no, no not yet! I'm not done!" you squealed. He tried to snatch it away from you, making you slide down deeper into your seat. "C'mon let me take a look!" You kept trying to kick him away, he wasnt getting to this drawing until you were damn well ready for him to see it. "Stop! You're gonna make me mess up!" He ducked down and tried to dive under your arms but you jumped up out of the chair and on top of the bed Mae and Caleb were trying to cuddle on. "Watch it!" Caleb yelled. You ignored him and jumped over to the arm of the couch Homer was settled into. The little bastard swiped at your legs and sent you tumbling down to the floor. Severen lunged at you and caught your legs before you could get back up. "Gotcha!" "Nooo!" You tried to kick yourself free again but he held tightly onto your hips with one arm while the other reached for your drawing. "Just wait until I'm done!" You heard someone knocking loudly in the wall to your left and a muffled yell of, "Shut the fuck up!" You only took it as a distraction to break out of Severen's hold and dash into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door. You heard his body thud against the other side of the flimsy wood and chuckled. He tried the knob but it only rattled. "Damn it!" "Guess you'll just have to wait," you snickered, satisfied with your victory.

You slid down into the floor and you could hear Severen do the same on the opposite side of the door. You kept drawing until you heard the soft spark of Severen’s lighter and the smell of cigarette smoke wafted under the door. "Sev! Lemme get a smoke." You stuck your fingers though the gap. You heard him hum thoughtfully and groaned, already knowing where this was going. "Come on, pretty please?" You flexed your fingers in a gimmie motion and he huffed out a small laugh. "I'll trade you." You eyes darted down to your nearly complete drawing. After a moment you yanked your hand back and kept working. "One sec." You added some shading and embellishments before tossing the marker aside and getting to your feet. You tucked the drawing behind your back before opening the door. On the other side Severen was scrambling to his own feet. He raised a brow at you and you tilted your chin towards him, parting your lips and urging him to give you your smoke. He obliged and even lit the end for you. "Well?" You presented him with the completed drawing. It was a characature of him as a little devil, horns, pitchfork, and pointy little tail included, dancing around in a goofy pose. He just stared at it, slack jawed before giving a disbelieving laugh. Diamondback dashed across the room to peek over his shoulder and take a look of her own. "Oh my God! Jess, look at this!" She snatched the paper away from Severen who chased her back across the room. She slammed the drawing down on the card table and everyone rushed over to take a look. They all broke up in a fit of laughter. "It's a spittin' image, I'd say," Mae shook her head, looking between Severen and his tiny counterpart. Severen urged you over and you gladly tucked yourself under his arm, leaing up for a kiss on the head. "Gee, can we stick it on the fridge you guys?" "If we had one," Jesse answered.

[thewordworrier]

Revenge Looks Good On You

Word Count: 2,600 and change. Holy balls this is SHORT for me. Warnings: A cuss or two. Notes: ~ Female!OC ~ Band!Fic ~ Probably not actual awards they won/were nominated for but I’m not feeling serious enough to actually look those up. Oh, and this is the dress she’s wearing. I spent too long trying to figure out how to describe it. Happy birthday Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge! 18 today! Have a little possibly cheesy Band!Fic Universe ficlet.

- - - - - - - - - - Before some awards show, during which Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge is not only recognised but nominated. A lot. The band is too, but they’re all more excited for the album nominations. “Oh my god,” Frank grumbled, starting to pace out of boredom. “We’re going to be late!” “Shut up,” Gerard muttered. “She knows what she’s doing. She’s the one who makes all the arrangements and whatever.” “Yeah, which is why she should be -” “Oh hey,” Ray interrupted. “There she is.” Gerard and Frank looked to the doorway to see their little blonde Tour Manager standing there. She smiled when she realised she had all their eyes on her. “Well, look at you,” Frank said. “You look like the album threw up on you.” “Frank!” Mikey scolded, before turning back to the girl. “He means you look like the album in the flesh,” he glanced up at her hair. “Almost.” “I’m not dying my hair for you,” she said, moving to check her make-up in the mirror. “I have to draw the line somewhere.” “You’re prettier blonde,” Frank said, causing the others to look at him. “What? She is! I don’t think darker hair would suit her.” “Thank you, Frankie,” she rearranged her loosely-curled hair and adjusted some of the hair grips to keep it off of her face before using the mirror to look over the men behind her. “You guys all scrub up pretty decently too, by the way.” They appeared to puff up with pride a little and she giggled before speaking again. “And I’m not mad, it’s kinda the look I was going for. I don’t like to leave any doubt who I work for and belong to.” Gerard was watching her as she unwrapped something from around her wrist to put it around her neck. “Is that a rosary?” “From the razor to the,” she said with a nod, adjusting the black beads. “Where did you get that?” “It’s mine,” she went back to fiddling with her hair. “Grew up a little Catholic. Dropped it as soon as I could. If you look closer I have roses and stars in my ears.” “Red rose on your coffin door,” Mikey nodded before frowning. “Stars?” “Helena,” Shelly moved to head back into the other room. “When every star fall brought you to tears again,” Gerard clarified, watching her with… A really gentle look on his face. “They’re diamonds too,” she called. “Diamonds, comas and cake an’ all that. Actually, that sounds like a good biography name…” She reappeared in the doorway, putting her phone in a small purse and caught sight of the expression on Frank’s face. “What?” “Bet your nails are Pitchfork Red then,” Frank said with a grin. The blonde just smiled. “Almost. They’re more wine or burgundy rather than bright devil red, but the colour number is in the six hundreds, so that’ll do.” “I say that counts!” Shelly bowed slightly to Ray. “Thank you Mr Toro, sir!” The others laughed quietly. “I don’t suit bright red anyway,” she shrugged as they finished getting ready. “Makes me look deathly pale and while that might suit you guys, it doesn’t suit me. Besides, the burgundy matches my dress and shoes better.” “It’s a nice dress,” Frank said as she ushered them all into the elevator. “I do really mean that.” “It’s a little fancier than my daywear but it doesn’t make me stand out too much. Which is the dream, really. It’s not my job to stand out.” Shelly checked them all over as the elevator was moving. “Also, well done for all being ready on time.” “We were just waiting for you. Frank was starting to get worried that we were gonna be late.” Frank gave Gerard a Look for snitching on him. She hummed at the vocalist. “Truth be told, I gave you all the wrong time anyway. I told you all to be ready earlier than needed, just in case.” “See?” Gerard turned to Frank. “I told you that she knows what she’s doing.” Shelly could tell that Frank was going to start arguing back - she sighed and bundled them all into the car outside, making sure they weren’t sitting next to each other. “For goodness sake,” she muttered, settling in the car beside Gerard. “Behave boys.” Frank grumbled playfully under his breath, receiving a raised eyebrow from her in response and he giggled quietly until a thought hit him. “Hey, is that reporter gonna be there?” “Rep- which one?” Ray asked. “There’s probably gonna be a few.” “The one Mikey obviously has a crush on,” Frank said with a wicked little grin. “The one that made him go through someone’s planner and get whacked upside the head because of it.” “Shuttup,” the younger Way muttered, sinking into his seat a little more. Shelly giggled softly, pulling her phone out of the purse on her lap. “I don’t know the answer to that, I never thought to ask. But if she is there, we’ll know when we get there.” “So, stay professional Mikes,” Frank grinned at the bassist, only to laugh when he got a glare in response. “Frank,” Shelly said without looking up from her phone. “Be nice.” “Yes ma’am.” She cleared her throat warningly. “Miss,” Frank corrected. “Yes Miss.” She giggled and went back to her phone for the rest of the car trip. When they arrived, they piled out and she accepted help from Ray so she didn’t end up on her face. She thanked him and led the way to where they were supposed to be. Shelly sat quietly with the boys as the show progressed. Normally she’d be taking notes or something, but she knew that she’d be able to get a full breakdown of the awards, nominees and winners from someone later - she’d already set herself a reminder to email them about that. Instead, she was listening, both to whoever was presenting the current category, and to the soft, general chit chat around her. From both other tables and from the boys. She tilted her head towards the podium as the host changed for the next award. Ah. She turned her attention to Gerard beside her to see him nibbling on his thumb. Gently, she took his hand away from his mouth and held onto it, keeping her eyes focused on the current speaker, but she could see him look up and at her. “And the winner of best single is…” The speaker, someone Shelly didn’t recognise, paused for dramatic effect. “Helena by My Chemical Romance!” Shelly squealed softly in glee, squeezed Gerard’s hand and shooed them up from the table to go and accept the award. She watched them fondly, the brothers looking a little too surprised and, especially on Gerard’s part, emotional, to really talk properly, so Ray and Frank took over their little speech. Gerard managed to gather himself together enough to blow a kiss to the cameras and pat his heart before they were led offstage so they could head back to their table. She stood up to greet them when she saw them get closer and was immediately pulled into a tight hug by Gerard; he squeezed her and she hugged him back almost as tightly, though a little part of her was aware of the fact that there were journalists and photographers, and maybe even people filming. Although she wasn’t entirely sure why she was feeling so aware of that. When he let her go, they took their seats and he sought out her hand to squeeze it. Needless to say, the band and the album, how did the journalists put it? They cleared up - including one for best live show, which really pleased her. She was so proud of them. “What now?” Mikey asked afterwards. “Press stuff I think,” Shelly adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and took a couple of the awards so they wouldn’t get dropped. Gerard checked the awards they were still holding before taking one from Frank and swapping it with one Shelly was holding. She looked at him inquisitively before checking the one he’d just given her. Ahh. The award for best single. She should’ve guessed, really, that he would want this one to stay safe. “Ready for the wolves?” She asked the band as a whole, tilting her head towards the designated press area. She giggled when they all nodded and stood up straighter. Shelly wasn’t surprised when the journalists there swarmed around her boys like vultures to a carcass. What did surprise her, however, was the speed at which they did so. Normally, she liked to stick close to them when journalists were around (though she’d always be off to the side when photographers were working) but this time she’d been edged out and away from them. Truthfully, she felt a tiny bit panicked by it - she was short, small and female, and a lot of these journalists were larger, stockier men. She had the feeling that their reporter friend wasn’t there; Shelly might’ve seen her by now. She could be wrong though; she couldn’t really see much right now. Even her politest “Excuse me, please?!” wasn’t helping her. “Hey, can you let her through?” She heard Ray’s voice. “She’s with us,” Mikey added. Always the polite ones, Shelly thought as she managed to get in front of one guy. “Oi!” Frank’s voice was next to reach her ears. “Fucking hell, let her through!” “Seriously! No interviews unless you let our Tour Manager through!” Gerard taking charge seemed to work as the two tall men stood in front of her parted, a little like the Red Sea, and she was able to hurry her way over to her band. Frank took her arm as soon as she was close enough and sandwiched her in between himself and Gerard, who looked down and nodded once. “Better,” he said, turning back to the press. “What were you asking?” After that, the press circuit bit, she ushered them all back into a car. She made sure that everyone had put their seatbelts on before she gently rearranged the awards she was still holding in her lap. “Okay darlings,” she said softly. “First we’re gonna take these back to the hotel so I can put them somewhere and arrange to get them shipped later. Then, it’s up to you if you wanna go and eat or go out or,” she waved a hand gently as the other held the awards closer to her. “Or whatever.” “What will you be doing?” Frank asked, noticing Gerard watching her holding the awards. “Mm, I’ll probably eat something and then get some sleep, I don’t really know.” “Not planning on going out?” Mikey frowned. “Not gonna celebrate with us?” She shook her head at the bassist. “No. I’m not one for partying, and besides, the celebration isn’t mine.” “The live shows award is,” Gerard said. “If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t get to our shows on time.” “Or have our instruments in one piece or tuned properly.” “Or look the part when we go on stage or go to interviews.” The immediate rebuttal of her response made the normally pale girl blush very pink, very quickly and she tried to hide behind her hair only to have Frank and Gerard - the two either side of her, move it off of her face. She couldn’t even hide her face in her hands because that would’ve meant letting the awards go and possibly letting them get damaged - and she wouldn’t do that. “Boys,” she whined quietly. “That’s not fair, let me be embarrassed in peace.” “Nope, never.” Frank’s smile turned into a big grin when she pouted a bit, but he did give her a break until they got back to the hotel. The awards were carefully put on a solid surface in her room and there was a brief, playful argument about her joining them to celebrate. She won, but that’s because she was stubborn. For the most part at least. There was still a little shyness there too, especially today because they all scrubbed up so well. Gerard was looking particularly swoon worthy, but she’d never admit that out loud. Or well, she might if she was bullied into it a little, but she would never, ever admit that she thought that about him even when he wasn’t ‘scrubbed up’ like this. She just really enjoyed looking at his face. “Shelly.” She looked up at Frank, as she tried to usher them to go out. “Yes?” As soon as he grinned she knew that he was up to something, and apparently the others did too as they turned to him. “Revenge looks so good on you.” The others seemed to relax, especially when she went pink and giggled. “But,” he pointedly looked her up and down. “That dress would probably look better on the floor.” “Frank!” Multiple voices scolded. Frank laughed and was marched down the corridor by Ray and Mikey. Gerard hung back for a moment, shaking his head before leaning against the doorframe. “Sorry about him,” he said softly as he looked her over again. She really did look good in the album’s aesthetic. “Mm,” Shelly nibbled her bottom lip, trying not to look up at him too much. “It’s okay. I should’ve expected something like that really.” “Damn dog,” Gerard muttered almost affectionately as he glanced down the hallway. “You okay though?” She nodded. “Go on, go and celebrate your well deserved wins.” “Are you sure I can’t convince you to come with us?” Gerard asked again, hesitating before tucking some of her hair behind her ear. “I…” She exhaled slowly as his fingers grazed her ear and then the side of her face. God, it was so hard to say no to him. “I’m good, really. The celebration really isn’t mine, and I have a little work to do anyway.” “Well, you know we disagree with that, but if you’re sure I can’t persuade you?” Shelly focused on her hands as she smoothed her dress down. She’d probably give in if she looked at his face. “I’m sure. Although, promise me something?” “Sure.” She made herself look up at him. “You guys will call me if you need anything? No matter what the time is? I mean,” she glanced slightly to the right and scratched her neck. “That is my job after all, but also, I want you all to be safe.” “I promise,” he hadn’t hesitated. “As long as you promise you’ll come and join us if you change your mind?” “I promise, but I doubt that will happen,” she shook her head again. “Try not to drink too much, okay?” “I’ll try and have something different, something softer, every other drink, don’t worry.” The shorter girl looked up to study his face for a minute, before nodding. “Okay. I believe you. Be careful.” “Will do,” Gerard hesitated for a second before giving her a quick hug, almost lifting her out of her shoes. “Put me down and go and find the others.” “Yes, Miss,” he grinned and avoided the playful swatting she aimed at him. “Shoo!” She smiled and her tone softened. “But call me if you need me, no matter what the time is.” “I- We will.” Shelly nodded to him and shut the door. He waited until he heard it locked before he leant against the wall and let out a sigh. Yeah, the aesthetic did look really good on her. Like, really good. She put so much effort in, she focused on little details and… That was something he could appreciate. Maybe he should tell her that. That he appreciated her and all the little details. But he would not tell her that he agreed with Frank; that he also thought her dress would look better on his hotel room floor.

[justatinybunwriting]

Mirror

Prompt 8 of this promptober list!

Synopsis: As Richard and Jac are trying to open a portal that would lead to home, a man hired by a wicked queen approaches Jac.

Notes: The first part of this story takes place in the Fairy World Detective AU!

"Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

In an instant, the fairy behind the glass appeared before the wicked queen and replied with a cocky grin.

"Hate to break the news to ya lady, but there's a new gal in town that goes by the name of Jac."

The queen was infuriated and tossed her bubbling drink onto the mirror, barely missing it.

"WHAT HAPPENED TO SNOW WHITE?!"

"Well, she met up with her sister Red Rose and is now in a cabin with a bear I believe. So she's no longer in this fairy kingdom, ma'am."

"Good. That bear will take care of her. But WHO IS THIS INBECILE JACK?"

"Beats me. She just came out of nowhere, like poof! And she was there."

"WHERE IS THAT GOOD FOR NOTHING ASSASSIN?!"

Meanwhile, Jac and her giant friend Richard were stuck in a crossroad, both literally and figuratively.

"Cheeze brought us through the wrong wormhole again!" Jac fumed. "This is definitely not Never Never Land!"

"Never trust a rabbit to do a fae's job." Richard replied as he held a shining crystal in his hands. "Don't worry, I'm on it. If I can just get this artifact to work I can open the Tunnel of Chaos again so we can get back to headquarters and start over."

"Or we could try to find the right checkpoint ourselves and head over there straight away from the tunnel."

"Jac, we discussed this. The last time we did that we wounded up switching sizes. I'm not going to take that risk again."

"But I liked being big.." Jac pouted as she folded her arms.

Just then, a rugged man wielding a knife walked up to Jac from behind. She whipped around as soon as she noticed him; the sight of the weapon in his hand caused all the hairs on her neck to stand. She was about to do a quick draw of her taser when the stranger backed up and held back his blade. He had a sorrowful look in his eyes.

"Oh, oh... no, you're pretty." He uttered.

"What?!" Was Jac's angered response.

"I'm sorry. I was hired to kill you. But once again I cannot. I am a weak man."

"WHA?!"

At that very moment, the man was suddenly plucked up by the rim of his coat and was just as quickly brought up to the giant's face. The assassin was flabbergasted by how he failed to notice this titan before and flailed about wildly.

"What do you want me to do with him, Jac?" Richard bellowed in an almost beastly manner.

"Please!! Mister giant!! Don't eat me!!" The assassin pleaded.

"No? Why would I want to do that? You look disgusting. I was thinking more like... how about I throw you over the horizon? That sounds like it would be fun, wouldn't you agree?"

"Richard!! Put him down!!" Jac was folding her arms and thumped her foot. The giant then turned his head and looked upon her with a fake pout.

"Why don't you want me to mess with him? He did just try to kill you after all."

"I think I know which story we're in! We're not supposed to screw around with it remember? Just fix the messes that the Time Warper has made, remember?!"

"All right, all right..." Richard then turned his attention back to the shivering man in his grasp. "You promise you won't tell anyone else about this?"

"OF COURSE OF COURSE! I SWEAR BY THE QUEEN'S NAME!!"

"O-kay."

The Wile giant then sat the man down roughly on the grass. He then lowered himself and looked at him straight in the eyes before returning with a growling voice.

"Now BEAT IT before I change my mind."

The man did a complete 180 and made a beeline for the hills, all while he wailed hysterically like a madman. Richard got up to his full height and brushed the dirt off his hands.

"He won't keep his word. We better get outta here before all the King's horses and all the King's men come after us with pitchforks."

"The usual." Jac raised her arms.

Not long after, after reciting the spell for the umpteenth time, at last the crystal in Richard's hands lit up a bright blue and a portal started to form right in front of the two. At that exact time, they heard the telltale hollers of an angry mob in the far distance, so the interdimensional tunnel couldn't have come at a better time.

As what was normally the case, the hole was only big enough for a human to pass through, though that wouldn't be a problem for Richard. Shrinking down to human height is a necessary evil (in his mind) when the situation called for it. Taking Jac by the hand, the two of them jumped in at once, and were pulled in just as the wormhole was about to close behind them.

.....

Jac had awoken underneath Richard's hand. The Wile giant had propped her against his chest, and he was apparently startled awake about the same time as she was.

"I... had that weird dream again..." Jac said groggily as she wiped the crust off of her eyes.

"Which one...?" Richard asked with a yawn.

"That I was a fairy world detective. And you were there, and helping me out with solving mysteries in fairy land..."

"You've been watching too many cartoons."

"Maybe."

The start of the morning was quiet, as neither of them had work that day. So they were free to prep in their own leisure. Jac had gone to freshen up in the human sized restroom, with the bits and pieces of what she remembered of her dreams still stirring up her thoughts.

As she brushed her hair, she noticed a small green dot on the mirror. She couldn't figure out where it came from or what it was exactly, but one thing was for certain: it was gross and it needed to go. She was just about to pull out a paper towel in order to wipe the blotch out, when it suddenly moved.

Jac froze in place as the little green figure fluttered about; it held it's hands over it's face with what appeared to be a snicker, before at last it flew out of the frame. Jac immediately turned around, but saw nothing behind her. It was too late anyway since the little thing was too fast for her to follow.

She could have sworn that it was the very same fairy that she saw behind the magic mirror in her dream.

For a few moments thereafter she became lost in a sea of what ifs. Eventually, after the initial shock had weathered down, Jac figured that she was still drowsy from the restless sleep she had the night before. She was still pretty tired, so it wasn't unusual for her to let her imagination wander during these times. So with that, Jac decided to not ponder about it any further, as she continued on as usual with the rest of her day.

She never did see that green fairy again, so she was pretty certain it was all in her head. Maybe.

[bropleasejustletmesignuogoddamn]

Hiii. so i probably have autism and adhd, and currently have an obsession with moths and Wilburs new album Mammalian Sighing Reflex.

Soooo i decided to combind them. Ive drawn moths before but usually i have a color pallet amd make smth up or draw an irl moth. Image and design choices under the cut

Ok so the color pallete is the one from the album, obviously

The top wings are based off the dog and night sky back ground. I originally was just gonna do the dogs eyes before adding the moon and stars, i like it alot this way.

The lower wing was just to add more of tge red ngl (i love that color so much) and the grey was pitchforks

the tail was another way to show the pitch forks. The body and head don't really have any importance to them.

i think ill do this with more albums/songs i like, please feel free to give criticism!!

[yandere-toons]

Hey since you’re doing Psychonauts, could you do a Nick Johnsmith X reader, please?(I am completely aware of this dude’s ulterior motives in the game, I just love his voice actor so much!)

Gristol Malik | Nick Johnsmith (Platonic Scenario - "The Last Carriage Out of Grulovia")

WARNING: unresolved trauma, famine, body decomposition, drowning, violence, blood, death, emotional + psychological manipulation, toxic mindsets.

A.N. - One of my favourite stories I've ever written.

The tweets of songbirds were muffled by the thick glass of the expansive windows allowing the red light of dawn to pour into the halls of the royal palace.

Many portraits of Gzar Theodore Malik and his family hung on the walls in place of other art, each one a splash of dark and gloomy colours that portrayed little happiness in their blank stares.

Maids worked on their knees to scrub the floorboards and rugs before royal boots stepped on them, and butlers walked up and down the corridors with fresh trays of breakfast still steaming.

“Great Gzar, if I may be allowed to rest.”

Theodore turned back and gazed at you through squinted eyes, drawing his hand to his chest as if even considering the request was shameful.

The crown, which sat upon his skull as if moulded to it, was a hill of red larger than he was wide that spiralled into the arms of various candles and dangling jewels. It looked like a chandelier that should have been hanging from wires on the ceiling, and the question of how his neck supported it was one you often pondered.

The creak of a door opening resounded from down the hall.

The thwacks of boots on the floorboards evolved into the soft thuds of heels on the rug, and a pair of hands seized your own with an impatient tug.

“I require more caviar!” A youthful and spirited voice erupted at your side, brimming with a confidence that demanded attention. Gristol Malik sported an indifferent if not slightly annoyed look as he neglected to acknowledge his father or the previous conversation.

As the Gzar hummed in amusement and started to walk away, you leaned over and bent your knees slightly to lessen the strain of resisting the boy. “There are many servants in the palace.”

His father took confident strides in the opposite direction when Gristol tightened his hold on you and pulled once again. “I wish for you to retrieve it. As your prince, I command it!”

The high-pitched barks of Spotty yipped and squeaked in a distant room, and the noise grew louder with the opening of a nearby door.

Gzarina Rokel Malik entered the hall in a series of controlled steps as if she planned each one before taking it, hands clasped in front of her waist and head angled towards the ceiling. The frill of her rose-pink dress and bejewelled crown, as they shook in a smooth rhythm, caught the eye of Gristol.

Taking a long moment to study the interaction between you and her son, Rokel mustered a posh smile and stood straighter with a quiet inhale. “Gristol, isn't it time for your horseback riding lessons?”

* * *

The common land of Grulovia was populated with shacks, dilapidated homes that had succumbed to the erosion of time and were barely livable, and a few too many citizens clad in rags. Their clothes had become oversized due to a lack of full stomachs most nights, and they devoted much of their remaining energy to carving and painting signs that begged for change.

Gristol may as well have been in a world of his own as he trotted along a dirt road on his pony, never looking at the people his father claimed to serve until a large rock landed in his path.

It was as if a blockage in his ears had been cleared, for as the prince watched the stone tear a line in the dirt, the buzz in the back of his head swelled to thundering footsteps and howls of anger.

On the horizon was a mob of fire, metal, and the silhouettes of peasants charging forward. In the hands of the mob were pitchforks and torches, the flames waving back and forth with a furious intensity and casting an uncomfortable heat upon the boy.

More rocks slammed into the ground near the hooves of the pony, and the animal reared its front legs to whinny. It fought the bit in its mouth and the bridle on its snout, causing the leather straps to chafe Gristol's palms. “Don't you know who I am? I'm telling my father!” he shouted at the mob, only to have his voice suffocated in the outcry of the people.

As he turned to leave, a searing pain struck his cheek and knocked him to the ground. Dirt, a fetid substance foreign to the boy, stained his pristine uniform and took the shine out of the gold buttons. The neigh of his mount echoed in the smoky air, but his attention was drawn to the bright liquid seeping from his skin like water from a river.

It glistened with the rosy glow of crimson and reeked of copper, dripping onto his quivering fingers and coating them in a damp warmth.

The heart in his chest thrummed against his ribcage at an increasing rate that surged to the palpitations of an animal breaking out of a cage. Any control over the situation that Gristol pretended to have was torn from him at that moment, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead while searching for his horse to escape.

The hoofbeats of the pony fleeing caused the prince to extend a hand and demand its return, the hooves flinging earth at him and retreating over the hill.

Gristol pulled his face out of the mud with a desperate cry, and when he flipped onto his back to crawl in the direction his frantic mind assumed led to the castle, he saw only monsters who wished to inflict a type of harm on him that he could not understand.

Their humanity had been stripped away to reveal gnashing teeth, pounding fists, and wild eyes devoid of mercy.

He breathed so fast that his lungs began to contract in painful spasms, and the sensation of a crushing weight lying on his chest drained his legs of their strength and filled his head with dizzy panic. Even his arms started to fail him, wobbling and threatening to plunge his body into the dirt without a chance of lifting himself out of it.

Just as the sun was fading into the bared teeth and torches of the peasants, a wall of water crashed upon the rear of the crowd and swept it into the air.

Screams of terror replaced the gales of rage, and the waves swelled and stooped to clutch more in a fluid embrace and toss them out of his sight.

Fearing the rough touch of hands seeking to show him no remorse, Gristol tucked his knees into his stomach and wrapped his arms around his face. The noises swirling around him continued for most of a minute as his whimpers were overshadowed by the deluge and shrieks.

After the land collapsed into a peace rife with waterlogged corpses and the silent echoes of agony, a pair of footsteps approached the boy. He shivered with bursts of intermittent sobs, which turned to shouts and squirming when two arms heaved him against a lean chest.

A deep but feminine voice tinged with a Slavic accent whispered, “Easy, little Gzesarevich.”

* * *

The wind pushed the woman's brown headscarf over most of her face and lifted the hem of her blue kaftan, but she remained in the doorway as she ushered the boy inside. “The little Gzesarevich found himself in a mob.”

Tears of different sizes gushed from his eyes at different times as if he was unsure of whether to let them fall or suppress them.

At the arrival of his father, Gristol flung himself against the man and clutched handfuls of his regalia.

The rich blue fabric, a work of tireless hours by someone whom the Gzar had never met, became stained with dark splotches of tears and blood as both substances jumped from his son's face to the uniform.

Theodore looked down at the boy in surprise and conjured the barest hint of pity before the distraught sounds, muffled by his clothes but still piercing, and the damage to his outfit drew his lips into a repulsed grimace.

The Gzar crinkled his eyes and held his arms away from his body.

Rokel darted into the anteroom with clumps of her dress raised in her hands for better mobility, and a dark look of anger crossed her face when Theodore shoved Gristol off him like a man brushing the dirt off his coat.

The boy stumbled aside as his father marched to the psychic in the doorway, his hand in the air and a finger pointed at the outside world.

“Get back out there!” he shouted as though it were the last thing he would ever say. “Rid my land of those peasants!” His limbs shook in fear, and Maligula whirled to the village with a typhoon forming at the doorstep of the palace.

Droplets of water sprayed his long face before the guards closed the door, leading Theodore to recoil and wince as if he had been struck.

Rokel searched for her son, only to find him stamping his muddy shoe on the rug and clomping down the hall.

You had only seen the prince shed real tears twice in your many years of service to the Maliks, once at this moment and once when he had awoken to an empty bowl and convinced himself that caviar no longer existed.

The part of you that stored his caviar on bags of ice so it would not lose its taste and took his dirty plate away at the end of dinner, the servant, was tugged by the impulse to swipe a stick of cotton candy and give it to the crying boy.

The part of you that cursed his father's rule was glad to watch the royal family be slapped in the face by their failing country.

Even more, the selfish part of you inferred that bringing one of his most desirable snacks would earn some degree of favour if the heir or the Gzar decided to go on a termination spree for revenge.

As you emerged from his bedroom with a creak of the door and a ball of cotton candy in your hand, Gristol paused a short distance from the same door. His puffy eyes recognized the pink material spilling out of the white cone, and after a moment of surprise and tears drying, he rushed to claim the dessert.

The familiar splash of sweetness eased his shudders. It blanketed his hand with a pale fluff that smelt of candy delight, allowing him to forget his skin had been covered in his blood a few minutes earlier. “Come, servant. I shall enjoy the cotton candy in my chambers.”

The prince pushed his hand into yours and steered you back into the room. His voice had calmed from the weeping, but it was strained with a thin layer of sadness.

Once the sugary meal was devoured, he ordered you to retrieve a batch of caviar.

Gristol was sitting on his plush bed when you returned, its length and width stretching far more than was necessary to cradle the boy. The bedposts were tapered to spearheads, which sloped down to where his legs dangled from the side of the mattress.

The jewel-encrusted gold bowl resting on the palm of his right hand shimmered like a horde of precious diamonds, and the mother-of-pearl spoon in his left hand glittered like a star in the night sky. The spoon was balancing on his thumb and the crevice between his index finger and middle finger, bobbing with idle anticipation as he narrowed his eyes at you.

After a minute spent wondering if it was a test of some kind and debating whether it would be seen as improper or not, you met his gaze when he refused to turn his eye elsewhere.

“Servant,” he addressed you in the same graceless way as always, “are you loyal to me?” There was a genuine curiosity to his words, and the fork hovered just shy of his lips.

The bruise on his cheek, a darker shade of purple, seemed as vivid as the moment the rock left the grip of the peasant and split his skin into a bloody contusion. “You would never stone me, never spit in my face?” Gristol plopped the lump of caviar into his mouth, savouring the buttery flavour without breaking eye contact and swallowing before finishing his thought. “Never betray me?”

Recalling the sight of a maid no more esteemed or regal than yourself being tossed into the mud for speaking out of turn, you bowed your head. “Of course not, Gzesarevich.”

She had been doomed to starve along with the rest of the population simply because she voiced an idea at a time when the Gzar happened to be in a foul mood.

If the prince recognized the superficiality of your promise, he did not show it.

“Good,” he muttered through a spoonful of caviar. When the utensil was removed from his mouth and plunged into the bowl once again, his voice became much clearer. “And, 'Gzesarevich'?”

Gristol twirled a few pieces of caviar on the edge of his fork, and he turned to you after watching the motion for a few seconds. “I'm going to be Gzar one day.”

The sunshine streaming through the long windows caught the tip of the utensil before it was stuffed between his teeth. “Call me 'Gzar' from now on. I'll need you prepared for when you're serving me on the throne.”

The fact that he had planned your future and decided the extent of your life with such careless ease as if you were a number on a spreadsheet almost made you forget he was a child.

Apprehension flooded your mind as you imagined the confusion at dinners when the young Malik asked for a refill or said anything to you that demanded a greeting. The inevitable assumption that you were either stupid for mistaking the titles or disrespecting Theodore would be the end of your employment and life.

“Gzar is your father's title.”

Gristol pulled the fork out of his mouth with a delighted hum. “Ah! So you're already familiar with it. Splendid!”

* * *

When the storm of liquid slammed into the windows and crowded around them, it rose to such impossible heights that much of the sunlight was eclipsed. The chamber was drowned in the shadows of the tide, which danced and writhed with furious strength and cast the walls in periodic spots of light.

A darkness fell upon the jewels that once glittered like snowflakes in the night of a full moon, and despite the stone barrier separating the flood from the room, it seemed as though your lungs were unable to find air.

The waves beat against the glass as if there were hundreds of fists pounding to batter the majestic halls of the estate and plunge them into a watery grave.

A hiss echoed in the bedroom as a crack darted across the middle of a window in a jagged shape that was not unlike the claw of a beast, and it twisted and swerved in many directions with such intractable speed that streaks of water began to shoot onto the carpet. The fractured glass was lighter in colour and seemingly thicker, appearing to protrude from the rest of the window.

Gristol opened his mouth to release a frightened gasp, his eyes widening in search of an explanation for the attack. He retreated from the portion of the carpet stained with the dark texture of water and backed towards you.

The silken fabric of his royal garb brushed your skin, and you looked down to see the prince grasping at your hand. “Where is my father?” he asked, tugging your arm as if doing so would provide a quicker answer.

You glanced between the roaring water and the boy with confusion on your lips. When the cracks grew until the windows resembled a mosaic, you clutched the doorknob to the ornate slab of wood preventing you from leaving and yanked it open.

Rokel stood on the other side of the door with her hand raised to do the same, the look of surprise on her face turning to relief after she spotted Gristol.

The sound of rushing water flooded your ears, but the corridor had gained only a narrow flush of water around the carpet and rugs.

Over the sloshing of the tide, a yell was heard from the end of the hall. “Gzarina!” A guard was waving his arm beside a hidden passage, a chunk of the stone protruding from the wall and swaying into the corridor to form an entrance.

The round texture of a tunnel strewn with cobwebs and dirt glistened in the final streaks of sunlight that broke through the water. 

Rokel grasped the hand of her son and darted towards the solder, and as Gristol lurched forward in an unprepared stagger, he clutched your hand. A living chain was established between the three of you as the cold liquid pooled at your feet, draining into your shoes and chilling your skin.

Each step required more strength than the last until it was as if you were trudging in the bowels of a marsh.

The guard hauled the door back as far as the decrepit hinges would move, and the shaking of his limbs coincided with the howl of pain forcing his mouth open.

As Rokel lifted the soggy hem of her dress and stepped into the dark tunnel, Gristol hesitated at the edge of the entrance with a curled lip and crinkled eyes. He yelped when his mother tugged him over the frame of the door and planted boots that had scarcely touched anything more than tile into the dirt.

Water had begun to spill into the passage and be absorbed by the old earth, hitting the legs of the guard as his footing slipped a bit.

The jingling of loose gold, overpowering the distant cries of peasants, echoed in the corridor as Theodore sprinted in the direction of the tunnel with arms full of coins and jewels.

You were placing your foot in the dirt when he rammed his elbow into your chest and knocked you aside to clear his path to the escape route.

The hold Gristol had on you was severed in a desperate instant, and his attempts to look back and find you were thwarted by his father screaming for the door to be sealed.

Rokel refused to stop running or let go of her son for even a second, not sparing her husband a glance as he rushed ahead. Coins and small jewels bounced out of his grip with each slam of his boots against the ground.

When the guard collapsed onto his knees and swung the door shut with a rumbling thud, darkness enveloped the passageway except for the dim light of the moon glowing at the end.

The crashes of waves and the yells of peasants continued to explode on the opposite side of the door, growing fainter and overshadowed by the sight of a carriage waiting for the royal family on the cobblestone road.

The driver waved his hat at their approaching shapes. “My Gzar!”

Theodore rushed to dump his gold and jewels in the bottom of the cart, beginning to climb inside before the shocked voice of his son gave him pause.

“You took your gold and not them?” The prince stood a little ways from the carriage with a look of frightened confusion like a cat who had just been shaved. The accusatory edge of his tone met his inability to understand the need for this swift departure, his eyes twitching as if seeing a different, far more pathetic man than the one he called his father.

“I'm securing our future.” Gusts of air whipped the Gzar and pulled the cape and medals he treasured like breath. Theodore grasped the shoulders of his son and, with a yell of strain, he lifted him off the ground. “Now, get in the carriage, boy!”

He tossed Gristol into the arms of his mother, who set him on the corner seat and took the opposite corner for herself.

Theodore hopped into the middle seat and commanded the driver to spur the horses. The rattles of the carriage's wheels zoomed across the cobblestone, and the sound of screams carried on the wind.

When the Gzar shoved you, the back of your head collided with a thin rug that did little to separate the hard floorboards from your skull. Pain bloomed and ran across your brain in a series of throbs and tingles as if insects were scampering along and biting your nerves.

The tall ceiling staring down at you was a blur of meaningless shapes and colours, and the rising water lapped its frigid tongue against your neck.

Silhouettes of various sizes darted into view and hovered around you, their heads turning back and forth to report any injuries and trade observations. Multiple pairs of hands seized your arms and heaved you to your feet in a flurry of water droplets cascading down your back and side.

The faces, once blobs of indistinguishable features, sharpened into looks of concern and alarm as the rush of adrenaline that came with standing so quickly reduced the pain.

The chef, a muscular woman who still bore the smears and crumbs of a recent pie, inserted herself under your left arm, and one of the butlers whose suit was covered in dark stains inserted himself under your right arm.

As the duo guided you farther away from the main entrance and towards the servant quarters, a crew of maids were opening another tunnel in the kitchen.

The sous-chef waited near the secret door with the small figure of Spotty wrapped in his arms like rope, the dog flattening its ears and whimpering at the strips of water trickling into the room.

When the group emerged from the end of the passage, the clop of hooves was heard galloping into the night as servants who had found their way outside raided the stables.

The land was consumed by a moving shadow, for the tower of water had risen over the top of the palace like a great beast opening its mouth to bite down. It plummeted towards the ground with the force of a thousand winds, drawing screams and cries from the lips of all who beheld it.

An explosion of bright light preceded a thunderous crash.

The wave spread outwards instead of forwards with the birth of a transparent shield, which pulsed and shimmered like a ripple on the surface of a pond.

A middle-aged man with a white beard and hair stood in front of you, and he pressed a finger to his temple while extending his other hand to the water.

The liquid spilled over the magical barrier with unending strength to form a bowl-like shape.

With veins bulging in his forehead, the stranger clenched his teeth and fought to steady his wobbling arm. “We'll get you folks out of here! Just hold on!”

* * *

The Lady Luctopus Casino was true to its name, sporting a building in the shape of a gigantic octopus that rose so high above the waves it poked the clouds.

The babble of water as the ocean licked the rocky beach was overpowered by the joyful shouts of winners and the mournful wails of losers.

Atop the head of the octopus sat a luxurious crown, which glowed like a lighthouse to wayward boats in the fog.

Its tentacles were lined with neon suction cups and provided the foundation for various penthouses and balconies, structures that housed martini bars and dozens of people looking for wealth and thrills.

The sharp aromas of wine, margaritas, and pastries swirled around the establishment in an atmosphere of intoxication and indulgence.

These odours wrinkled the nose of Gristol Malik, who wished to save his ears from the assault of enthusiastic shouts but found his arms entangled in those of his mother.

As the shadow of the metallic beast passed over him, Gristol thought, if he turned his head the right way and imagined so, he could see the tentacles moving up and down like the spokes of a Ferris wheel. The carnival seemed like a far more enjoyable destination for the prince, but any words of protest he offered were lost in the shuffles of cards and the jingles of chips.

His father had not deigned to look his way since the royal family stepped out of the carriage, not that Gristol was eager to speak with the man who had uprooted his life.

Rokel let go of her son and put some distance between the two of them once there were many eyes ready to pry and observe.

The interior of the suite Theodore rented after dumping a handful of gems onto the counter and making the concierge struggle to breathe for a minute was even colder, holding a bed with a canopy and other furniture imported from distant countries that did little to impress Gristol.

It had not been more than a few days in the casino when the Gzar tumbled into his bed and lacked the strength to get out of it, and it was then that the prince broke the silence.

Theodore brushed his palm across his chest as the congestion travelled from his lungs to his throat in the harshest cough his frail body could muster, which jerked his head up and down before it dissolved into a weak sputter.

Gristol eyed the man from his bedside and studied his pain with disaffection, resting a hand on the edge of the mattress. “Father, do you remember that servant I used to play with?” His voice was a persuasive blend of curious and expectant.

The Gzar propped his head on the pillow to look at his son, and his mouth hung slightly open with drooping eyelids. “No.” The word came out as little more than a mumble sliding off the tip of a haggard tongue.

Not displaying the least bit of surprise, the prince maintained his clear and innocent tone. “I remember them.” A pinch of malice leaked into his words like the drip of an oozing faucet. “They were kinder to me than you ever were.”

Theodore closed his eyes for a slow blink, opening them with the same dazed expression he had worn for hours as if oblivious to the statement. He watched in sickened apathy as Gristol pressed his hands against the sheets to stand on his toes and leaned his upper body over the bed.

Rokel blew her nose into a handkerchief, and she turned away to weep as if she were alone in the room.

The prince, his mouth beside his father's ear, lowered his voice to a whisper and condensed years of unrestrained spite into a single breath. “You left them to die. I wish you had drowned instead.”

A croaky breath escaped the Gzar as his eyes widened. His heartbeat fizzled like a candle doused in water, and his final gust of air struggled to pass his lips.

When Gristol retreated to his original position, he embraced a twinge of satisfaction at seeing the life in the man fade into nothing.

* * *

After the door to the Levitation Lounge opened, you looked away from your conversation with Sasha Nein at the sound of papers fluttering like tiny wings.

The new mailman, Nick Johnsmith, stood in the doorway with the look of a man slapped and his arms positioned to embrace the letters that now swayed in the air beside him.

The impulse to clean a mess whenever you saw one - an echo of the hours spent helping maids and butlers wipe stains to avoid being fired or executed - nearly pulled you out of the seat, but you told yourself this environment was not so unforgiving.

Despite multiple Psychonauts levitating to the aid of Nick and asking if he was feeling well, Nick looked nowhere but at you. His appearance was fuzzy at a distance, and he gave you no opportunity to move closer.

The mailman dismissed the concerns of his coworkers with a few timely laughs and assurances of his health, joking about “first-week jitters” and handing a variety of envelopes to each Psychonaut.

It was not until later in the same month that he forged a letter addressed to you.

The tired hinges on the door squeaked shut behind you, muffling the shrill mutters floating through the laboratory. A compact list was held in your hand, and your eyes coasted from one line to the next before you squinted in disbelief. “What is he having me pump into this doctor?”

The roll of wheels across the tile floors drew your gaze to Nick, who was driving his cart to you with unblinking eyes and tenacious momentum.

When he reached you, the mailman clicked his heels together and closed his eyes with a look of innocent glee. “Message for you!” chirped Nick, one hand behind his back and the other raising an envelope beside his head.

You lost the first words on your tongue before they were spoken, for as he lingered at the edge of the door, the buttery scent wafting into the air after each breath he took reminded you of fish eggs on a mother-of-pearl spoon. “Have you heard about the caviar surprises in the vents? Someone's been eating it like catnip.”

Nick tilted his head and squinted, nodding slowly as if you had spoken in code. “Yes, someone has been.” He watched for any subtle movements - a nod, a twitch of the eye that vaguely resembled a wink, a repetitive tap of the finger - that he could interpret as support for his budding hope.

When motion in your peripheral vision caused you to glance in his direction out of instinct, the mailman seemed as though he was given new life and approached in joyful haste.

“What do you think of cotton candy?” It was a simple and anodyne question, yet the intense focus of his eyes on you added to it a special significance.

You flirted with a few different responses, only to discard each one as a revelation took hold of your mind like puzzle pieces connecting.

“After all this time, you awaited my arrival.” Nick stood as close as possible without bumping into you, and his look of excitement did not falter even as you turned a suspicious eye on him.

“Pardon me?” Your full attention shifted from the list to the mailman.

He shook his head. “There's no need. You were loyal from the start.”

Nick raised his hands to yours and guided them downwards, removing the paper from your immediate vision. His purple skin, coupled with his yellow, cat-like eyes and the way his hands fit into yours like those of a child, kindled a sense of familiarity in you that was both troubling and intriguing.

As the contentment radiating from Nick brought you inexplicable relief as if an unknown danger had been evaded, a Brazilian-accented voice called from down the hall.

“Darling!” It was followed by the clicks of high heels, and a slender woman in a turquoise shawl and striped skirt emerged from the opposite end of the corridor. Milla Vodello gazed between the two of you with calm happiness that betrayed nothing else. “Sasha and I are eating lunch in the lounge. Would you care to join us?”

An absentminded nod given after a few moments of collecting your thoughts was your answer, which prompted the psychic to address the mailman. “Nick, darling, how about you?”

The man rolled his shoulders and offered a laugh of fake anxiety. “That sounds delicious, but unfortunately, I already ate!” You went to move, but the hands grasping your forearms did not.

Milla squeezed her palms together for a silent clap. “I'll tell Sasha you're coming! Or would you like to tell him yourself?”

Your gaze drifted between Nick and the Psychonaut, noticing the glimpse of rage that flashed across his face like a momentary glint of steel.

A light shake gripped his body that worsened and endured for several seconds before he released you and stepped back. “Forgive my indelicacy.” The chuckle that sailed from his lips was full of nervous energy, ending as Nick curled a hand in front of his chin and placed the other hand on his hip. “The day has been long for all of us.”

He waved at Milla with a calculated friendliness learned from the days of rehearsal, but when it came time to wave at you, his arm wagged at a far brisker and more determined pace.

Once you were out of earshot, his smile disappeared in a cold second. He lowered his arm, and the pleasant aura that had radiated from him like a warm blanket after a stressful day sank to one of dissatisfaction. “I understand now why you hold your tongue.”

Nick turned to his mail cart and cast a final glance down the hall. “I shall break you of the Psychonaut's chains.”

* * *

A void surrounded the dinner table, plunging the area into a bottomless black that swallowed all light and teased the threat of falling without an end. It was diminished by the sways of the candelabra positioned on the centre of the table, which illuminated the fine mahogany texture.

The chair upon which Gristol sat was throne-like and encrusted with an assortment of rubies, emeralds, and other gemstones that Razputin could not hope to identify.

The chair taken by the psychic was much simpler and less imposing, for it was embroidered with only the images of jewels. He confirmed the deceit of the photorealistic patchwork once he lowered himself onto it, finding the comfort of a soft cushion rather than the sharp pain of rocks digging into his spine and legs.

The silence was broken every minute by a clock chime, its hand moving to the next half hour with each stroke of the mechanical timer. An incessant tick-tocking filled the space like an earwig tunnelling through the brain, unreachable and maddening.

The prince gradually sank further into his chair, sliding his upper teeth against his lower teeth and curling his fingers into a tight fist. A quiver was visible in his body as though there was a fury desperate to escape.

As Razputin swayed his head to peer into various corners of the darkness through his red-tinted goggles, he kicked his legs under the table and drew his lips into an unimpressed frown. “Is something supposed to happen?”

The question was directed more at himself and Lili than any of the mental projections that could have been lurking in the shadows, but Gristol faced him as if he had laughed at a funeral.

He composed himself just as quickly and tempered his look of hostility into one of calm irritation. “My servant will be along shortly with the feast.” Despite his downcast gaze and the suffocating aura of displeasure radiating from his end of the table, the prince spoke with unshakable certainty.

Razputin looked around once again and smelt the air, finding no aroma of steam and bread wafting out of a kitchen or a singular door from which to enter with trays of food. “Gristol, there’s no one else here.”

The head of Gristol snapped towards the young psychic, and the prince raised a hand to brush his cape off his knee. He draped his right leg over his left leg and pressed his fist against his cheek, leaning on the table and using his other hand to tap the wooden surface. “It would appear something is keeping them,” admitted Gristol as if hearing that truth on his lips made his stomach churn.

Once another examination of the pseudo dinner scene yielded nothing but darkness, Razputin pulled his goggles from his eyes to his forehead. “If you're just going to sit there, I have something to say.”

Gristol twirled a fork and looked askance at him with overflowing disdain.

The psychic fought to keep his visage free of any distress that would gleam like an open wound, but he could not deny the quiver of uncertainty that shook his voice. “Would you mind explaining what I saw on the way in here?”

Gristol tapped the rear of the fork against the tablecloth and acquired a look of mischievous pleasure. “I don't know what you saw.”

His eyes were narrowed into a look that taunted and belittled the Psychonaut, but when Razputin merely deepened his frown into a scowl, the prince relaxed his gaze and set the fork next to the spoon.

He crossed his arms and looked away, turning slightly and narrowing his eyes. “If that green peasant dies, good riddance.”

Razputin clenched his teeth in a snarl and pointed a finger at the prince. “Damnit, Gristol! This isn't about your revenge quest. This is a man's life on the line!”

His expression filling with indignant surprise, Gristol lowered his fists to his side and spun his head back towards the young Psychonaut. “It has everything to do with me! That rube forfeited his right to draw breath after—”

He was not given the luxury of completing his testament to how he was wronged, for Razputin predicted that his words held no truth. “After what? After he had a pleasant conversation with a coworker?”

The prince turned his head with a scoff. “I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

The Psychonaut gritted his teeth, tensing his shoulders and squeezing the edge of the table. “That you're a deranged little weirdo with way too much time on your hands?”

Halfway through the insult, Gristol took the appearance of a man screaming on the inside.

“They served me—" he slammed his fist into the table and produced a cacophony of rattling silverware “—before anyone else!”

The forks, spoons, and knives seemed to jump and shudder as if they, too, were frightened by the outburst.

Gristol pushed his chair back and stood with a loud creak, leaning towards Razputin and placing his palms on the table like an emperor overseeing the war strategy.

“And if that scum dares give them another order in my presence—” he stopped as a cold malevolence, like a scheme realized, fell over his anger and shrouded it in a fantasy unfurling its wings in the theatre behind his eyes.

The prince lifted his hand and admired his pristine cuticles, but he soon looked askance at the young psychic with an airy voice that teased amusement.  “Well, if I was still in Grulovia, I would have him executed for treason.”

Razputin saw the sincerity in his yellow gaze, the dim glow of candlelight fluttering across his lavender skin and giving him an almost luminous quality.

As the frigid whip of fear struck the calm of his stomach, the Psychonaut narrowed his eyes and heaved himself from his seat. “They don't live to serve you!”

Gristol arched his fingers like a cat hissing, digging his nails into the wood and peeling the uppermost layer of the mahogany in jagged strips. The splinters were a paler shade of brown that accumulated beside the divots.

“Yes, they do!” His voice teetered on the brink of an enraged whisper, but the final word boomed with such impossible strength that the room was shaken as if a giant had shouted it from the sky.

The young psychic recoiled just as the nasal tone of Lili overtook his comms, a brief moment of static preceding the young girl's thinly veiled discomfort. “Raz, what's going on? That annoying ride-thing went dark.”

The halls were filled with children's choirs singing in reverse, their pitch corrupted into spurts of discordant chanting that rose and fell like the theme of a nightmare.

Straightening his back and assuming his best imitation of royal poise, the prince turned his nose up and gazed at Razputin as if he were an insect. “They served me faithfully for years. Not my father, not my mother, not Maligula.”

He held a hand to his chest. “Me!”

Razputin shook his head, unwilling to hide the snarl that crept onto his face. “They didn't have a choice! Your father would have killed them or thrown them to the streets if they disobeyed.”

Gristol sneered at the thought. “I would never have allowed it. Besides, they were free to walk out the door at any time. It wasn't locked!”

The surface of the table began to peel and curl into lumps of wood shavings. The wax of the candles started to melt as if dunked in lava, and the flickers of the flames were extinguished in a sudden gust of wind that howled like a ghostly whisper.

When the clumps of hot wax splattered on the rotting table, the back legs of Razputin's chair snapped and threw him against an invisible floor. Pain gushed in the rear of his skull and compelled him to stick a hand on the area.

“Raz,” came the slow voice of Lili, “what's wrong with the people?”

From behind the psychic appeared a ragged figure, the sag of its detached jaw and the wrinkles contorting its face failing to hide the Grulovian colours of its unkempt uniform.

The eyes shone with an eggshell white devoid of pupils and irises, and they gazed at Razputin with no discernible emotion. When the zombified soldier tilted its head to examine him closer, its neck almost popped out of alignment with its spinal cord.

The Psychonaut hollered and squirmed as the creature slapped a rigid hand onto the top of his head and hoisted him into the air.

“Hey! Put me down!” Hearing this plea, the agitated voice of Lili clamoured in his ear for details about his situation. Razputin kicked the flat spot where the soldier's nose used to be, but it merely twitched in response.

The roar of Gristol thundered in the void. “You are no longer welcome here. Soldiers, throw him out!” He pointed a finger at the psychic and swung it towards the endless mass of darkness as if there was more to this slice of his world than a decaying dinner table.

Razputin narrowed his eyes to slits and bared his teeth in a silent growl, exposing his palm to the zombified creature's face. A blast of fire erupted from his hand, and the soldier was propelled into the far distance in scorched pieces.

Rapid squeals like a stuck pig emitted from the corpse.

Doors materialized on all sides of the table, and from them burst dozens of soldiers and peasants. Their corpses were bloated, some missing limbs and chunks of flesh. Many dragged a limp foot behind them, while others waved torches in an unsung chant.

The lyrics to the Grulovian anthem playing on repeat in Gristol's mind were whispered on their cracked lips.

Landing with grace, the Psychonaut turned around and faced the prince in his last demand for reasoning. “If your servant could see what you're doing, they would be mortified!”

The chaos of the mind lulled to an ominous pause.

Gristol widened his eyes and opened his mouth slightly, the twinkle of surprise on his face that gave Razputin a moment of hope washing away in the birth of a sinister rage. “Get out.” He slammed the sides of his fists onto the table each time he yelled the words, “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

He swept his arms across the furniture and knocked the silverware to the ground, and the desperation in his movements brought the mobs to a standstill.

Decomposed heads swivelled on loose necks to the prince, their groans quieting to idle shifts in their jaws.

“What are you doing? Seize that welp, and rid me of his ungrateful presence!”

Gristol's mask of confidence slipped further off his face as the soldiers and peasants began to form a half-circle around him.

“Did you not hear me?”

The aggressive yet lopsided thrusts of their legs and the gurgling in their throats sparked a dreadful fear, one familiar to the sense that overwhelmed his boyhood self.

“I am your Gzar! You will obey me!”

The clock fell from its perch on an unseen wall and shattered onto the floor in a mess of serrated glass, tolling like a church bell.

Gristol jumped at the noise and flinched away from the destruction.

More doors spawned on either side of the preexisting ones, and additional hordes of peasants and guards stampeded through them.

As he retreated deeper into the void, a hand as cold as the Siberian winter fell upon his shoulder. It lowered each finger individually and dug its sharp nails into his uniform.

Gristol stiffened as if on reflex, and the involuntary tension in his muscles only constricted him tighter when he looked up.

The hand was attached to a pencil-thin arm, which led to an unnaturally tall silhouette with a prominent resemblance to his father.

The shadow of an extravagant crown, the same as the one on Gristol's head, hid in the darkness, untouched by the light but shining with a distinct outline.

“Father?” questioned the prince, his voice strangled by panic and on the cusp of breaking.

The eyes of the figure were black and soulless like the depths of a cave that had never seen daylight, and the teeth in its lipless mouth were sharp and crooked as if struck by a hammer.

Without moving any other body part, the hand slid from his collarbone to his chest. Gristol managed the beginning of a scream before he was yanked into the darkness and vanished from Razputin's sight.

“Gristol!” yelled the psychic, but with the prince gone, the mobs of reanimated corpses turned to the Psychonaut once again.

“Oh, no,” he mumbled. Razputin pushed his goggles over his eyes and spun on his heels to scramble in the opposite direction, having mere seconds to judge every door he passed and bet his life on which one would deliver him to safety.

“Lili,” he shouted into the earpiece, “where are you? We have to get out of this mind now!”

* * *

The spherical walls of the Psychoisolation cell were a nearly transparent wave of pulsating magenta, the rich shades of purple and red like strawberry jam fading into a hazy mist around the centre as if it were underwater.

The dual antennae of an old television set, the green leaves of a house plant, and the dark brown wood of two bookcases were visible beyond the psychic shield.

Razputin eyed the pale imitation of normalcy left behind by Compton Boole after the man had locked himself inside and spent weeks dangling on the edge of overwhelming panic, assuming that Gristol had far less respect for anything that was not his royal palace.

The soles of his shoes clanked along the metallic floor, and just as the Psychonaut was nearing the cell, a pair of yellow eyes moved in front of the slot in the door.

“Have they asked for me?” The question flowed so readily from his mouth that it seemed he had been holding it on his lips and waiting to spring at the first opportunity like a predator lying in ambush.

Razputin did not waste a second in responding. “Nope, they haven't said a thing about you.”

Gristol toiled in silence for a moment, his eyes widening and his breath wavering as the illusion he clung to like the last scrap of food in famine was threatened. His pupils dilated in anger, and the truth of this momentary shake in his conviction was drowned in the lie poisoning his mind.

“You can't deceive me.”

There existed a scathing kind of malice in his glare as if the suggestion of otherwise was insulting.

“I know them better than you could ever dream, psychic.” The prince hissed the word “psychic” like a snake twirling its forked tongue, prompting Raz to withdraw from the door and pull his lips into a frown.

The young Psychonaut considered these words before his shoulders slumped in disappointment, and he shook his head with a quiet sigh. “I hope you find peace, Gristol.”

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

[yeptotallynotanartbloghehe]

Your honor, they're my sons, I have the adoption papers at home, trust me bro.

(image ids under the cut)

[image id 1: Two drawings of Devil cookie, a character with red skin, yellow eyes, sharp teeth, horns, bat wings, and a tail. He wears a black hood, red t-shirt with an X symbol, black jacket, and white socks, one of which is falling down his leg, in both images. In the first image, his wings are spread and his arms are crossed as he's looking off to the side. In the second, he's standing with his hands in his pockets and looking a lot more smug. Around him are doodles of edgy and stereotypically satanic imagery, and in the corner is a more cartoony doodle of Devil cookie with a pitchfork and yelling, "arson!" /id end.]

[image id 2: A drawing of Angel cookie and a pre-fallen Devil cookie, before he was a devil. Angel cookie is slightly stocky with curly, blonde hair, pale blue eyes, feathered wings, and a robe. Devil cookie looks similar too his brother, except he's thinner with pale red hair and yellow eyes. Angel cookie's expression is cheery, while Devil cookie's is less so. In the background, there are slight impressions of halos above both their heads, Devil cookie's being broken. /id end.]

[image id 3: A collection of doodles of Angel cookie and pre-fallen Devil cookie, which (in order, left to right, top to bottom) go as such. A doodle of Angel cookie's infamous "Angel stare", an inside joke in the cookie run fandom based on Angel cookie's intense, squinting stare, with the caption "why tho". A doodle of (pre-fallen) Devil cookie laying on a cloud, rolling his eyes and seeming very bored. A doodle of Angel and Devil cookie both in the same oversized shirt that reads, "our get along shirt". Neither of them are too happy about this. A doodle of a headcanon: Angel cookie sometimes spaces out while doing his stare. He proceeds to snap out of it and turn back to Devil cookie, asking, "I'm sorry, were we talking about something?" Devil cookie seems slightly annoyed, but otherwise is used to this. And finally, a colored doodle of Angel cookie, hands over his mouth and horrified as he witnesses Devil cookie turning into a devil, horns sprouting from his head and the feathers falling from his wings. /id end.]

[dilucslittleangel]

𝐀 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐈𝐥 𝐃𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞

Hello!! Usually I wanted to write this same thing with Scaramouche until unfortunately his canon past came out and I had to delete the whole thing- so now, while Dottore will sure take some time to appear in the game, I'm taking my chance to write how I think his past maybe looked like.

Some sentences towards the end have been taken off his artifact!

Word count: 1584

I'd like to say this may or may not fit into canon!! (however I wouldn't mind if this became canon)

So. Where to we begin?

I like to think Dottore had a golden child syndrome from a young age.

Most parents want to see their children thrive and flourish. In fact, the desire to see your child succeed is a normal desire of parenting. Moreover, even good parents sometimes have unrealistic expectations for their children.

But good child syndrome can happen when a child consistently reinforces their parent’s desires for them. These children don’t just want to satisfy their parents- they feel obligated and responsible for doing so. It becomes a significant part of their identity, meaning it affects their overall development. Either one or two of the parent role, are naracisstic.

A healthy child usually wants to succeed and make their parents proud. Golden children take it up a few notches. They may present as anxious children early in life. Similarly, they experience immense anxiety and guilt when they fail to meet certain expectations.

Despite how a golden child syndrome usually develops in a child, it was a little different in this case.

Dottore's father did not give him lots of attention at all. Just like the insane, crazy doctor / scientist he is himself now, so was his father. His father was a mad man, a man who's experiments are more important to him than his own family.

The young boy often watched his father, watching experiments a young boy like him should not see. All his father's attention went to the experiments, did he have to do the same?

The young lad did various of things, but they all were helpless. Nothing made his father even look at him, heck not even at the dinner table they talked. However he didn't want to stop trying. He had to keep on going, so he thought.

His mother? Dottore was just 7 years old when his mother started to feel worse and worse everyday. So worse even she had no other choice but to rest in bed, having a doctor visit every week as her husband was no doctor, just a scientist who couldn't care less. Why did they even marry?

Dottore brought his mother meals every day - at least whenever a helpful aunt came over. Dottore pretty much looked up to the doctor that came over every week. Did he also become so clever and brilliant to maybe help his mother? He sure thought so.

Day and night the young boy spend hours of looking into medical books, learning anything he possibly could. Often would he fall asleep on the ground, all exhausted from studying. He wanted to help his mother.

Besides studying medical stuff and trying to do anything that would make his father give any attention, he'd also spend other day and nights to get the best of grades, always did he bring good ones home. Never would you see anything below 95 points. Dottore didn't even think about having friends, they only were in his way and annoying. He had no time for friends, he only had himself.

Everytime he brought good grades home, he would bring the paper to his mother. She was more than proud of him. „One day you'll be such a handsome man, helping out so many people.. You make your mother really proud..”the sweet voice spoke. He couldn't let his mothers expactions down now could he?

More and more years have passed. Years of studying, years of writing good grades, years of wanting his father to also be proud of him. Dottore was under a pressure of making his parents be nothing, he didn't want to be a good-for-nothing, - a pressure he put himself under. He just wanted to mean something to both of his parents. He wanted to be worth living. Something cracked in the mind of his.

One day, the boy came home in the cold times of the years but he had great news, he scored the best once more in a big test, wanting to share the great news to his mother. He hadn't seen his mother since yesterday, he was happy to see his mother again. „Mother! Mother! Look!”he said proudly as he ran upstairs, he didn't even put his backpack down. „..Mother?”he asked as he entered the room. He walked over to the bed and looked at his mother. Her eyes were closed, chest not rising nor sleeping. „...?” he gently shook his mother, having his hand on the mother's arm, he felt the coldness. The heater was on, how could she get so cold? It got him worried.

„Mother??”he asked loudly, keeping on shaking her till he heard it knock on the door. He put his test paper on the bed and walked downstairs. He opened the door, looking at who was knocking. It was the doctor, wanting to check on the mother as always. „Uhm Doctor.. I don't think mother is feeling well.... She's quiet and so cold..” he spoke. The doctor looked at him. „..?..”the doctor quickly walked upstairs, of course did the boy walk after him. Dottore stood at the door frame, watching the man.

The doctor stood there silently for a few seconds, shrugging a bit together as he suddenly left the room, walking downstairs. „Where's your father kid??” he asked. „I..don't know. He was suddenly gone one day 2 years ago or so..”he answered. „..what?? Then where's your aunt, let me call her, boy.”

Dottore didn't quite understand what was going on but he knew nothing good happen. He looked back at his mother. He walked up to her, climbing onto the bed and hugging his beloved mother. He brushed away the long dark blue hair. Silently, he sank his head on the mothers chest, closing those pure red eyes. He widened his eyes a little as he heard no heartbeat. „...Mother..”. What a shame, he was just supposed to turn 14 in a few days.

Many many more years have passed. While he grew up along his aunt, Dottore had not given up what he did before. Now he had to make his aunt all proud, now that he's the oh so poor failure that couldn't save his mother hm? At least he thought that way, again.

Now being proud 20 years, living on his own in a old lab, doing various of experiments no one would like to recall. He'd just become the madman his father once was. The word "failure" does not exist for him. He cannot be a failure once more, after all.. He's such a big genius. How could a hardworking child with a great smile go to a madman with a short temper who's plans cannot go wrong?

So judgemental the god of his homeland Fontaine, so the people. Fontaine's people were disgusted of the man, afraid of him, they wanted him gone.

Chased away with pitchforks, clubs and angry words, he took fled to the all famous Sumeru Academia where he continued his crazy studies and experiments. He had so many logical theories, yet no one wanted to hear them. One would not even like to look at him. He truly was sick of everyone, of everything.

Years later again, once more the man took fled. Next day awoken, the social reject's legs have given up. Falling into the sand, with a little lake aside, he took a look at his reflection. Half of his face had gotten burn scars, had the man's charm left his side too? Hand covering half the man's face, he remembered it all.

A night of a harmless experiment with potions and fire had kept the man awake. Yet, the man had been tired. Sitting at the table, where he rest his head on his palm, the man closed his eyes. Dottore silently listened to the liquid heating up under the hottest flames. Maybe him closing his eyes was a terrible mistake which he soon got to suffer for.

The liquid had been heated up too much, the man should've turned off the fire by now but he soon was about to reach the beautiful dream realm. Glass exploding and hot liquid splashing against half his face awoke the man. Quickly the man stood up and pressed the towel against his face, sharp breaths escaping, silent cries filling the room, free hand turning off the fire.

How foolish of him, hm?

The man shook his head and closed his eyes. A grip on his shoulder made the man turn around. „..Fatui?”

"Merely an enhanced human? If your great nation can furnish me with sufficient resources and ample time, I could even manufacture that which you would call a god. What say you?"

True indeed. First of the fatui has tracked him down. In the desert that shone bright like liquid gold, he inquired of the Snezhnayan diplomat:

"Will you treat me like the Academia did? Will you call me a monster, a madman?"

"Or will you treat me as my hometown did, and chase me away with pitchforks and clubs...?"

...

"Good. Then, we are now in partnership."

"As for the matter of your title — what do you say to this..."

Taken completely by surprise by the sheer irony of the title he was given, the young man burst into hysterical laughter.

If you'd know ask the man about his theories and experiments, shall you see a sparkle of excitement...

...

(Drawing of Dottore in the age of four. From right to left -> "Daddy" "That's me!" "Mommy")

[mollymauktealeef]

uhm, for your prompts: geraskier, with jaskier hiding geralt (and maybe ciri) from nilfgaard in plain sight, like. without magic, he manages to make the soldiers go away with empty hands? thank you!

sorry this took longer than expected! i haven’t been feeling very well recently so it got left alone for a while. hope you like it though!

warning/s: none

(ao3)

“You there!”

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier mutters sharply recognising the no nonsense tone of a solider and feeling the dread settle in his gut like a block of ice. 

Geralt’s fingers twitch at his side, his swords are sadly tucked away under Roach’s blanket just under Ciri’s leg for safekeeping as she sits astride the saddle. 

They’d been reluctantly placed there - at Jaskier’s suggestion - so they could move through town unhindered by locals looking for a Witcher’s aid or at least so the trio could draw a little less attention than they normally would. Something they might have gotten away with if Geralt hadn’t been sour about hiding his swords so much he’d childishly left down his hood. Revealing his rather distinctive and famous white hair for all the land to see.  

And now there are soldiers.

So the idea of going incognito had clearly failed in it’s execution and now Geralt is without his weapons in easy reach as the squelch of many heavy boots marching through the mud approach them from behind. 

Jaskier watches out of the corner of his eye as Geralt’s hand releases the reins for Roach’s bridle and skims along her flank to the hidden pommel slowly. Jaskier shakes his head in warning and thankfully the Witcher listens, stilling his hand. 

The last thing they need is more attention and Geralt beheading the local guardsmen would be like sending up a flare for Nilfgaard. 

Jaskier chews on his lip, racking his brain for a way out of their predicament. He see’s Geralt’s hand move again, not for the swords this time but to rest on Ciri’s shaking knee in comfort. The princess huddles under her cloak, shrinking away from the danger approaching them and Jaskier’s heart aches for her. The lingering trauma of being hunted has left a stain on the once happy princess that Jaskier and Geralt have tried their best to erase. But situations like these always undo that hard work in moments.  

Jaskier sighs at the loss of progress shrinking deeper into the folds of her cloak and decides on a course of action, one that might just avoid darkening that stain on Ciri’s heart. 

“Oi! You deaf?” Another voice yells and Jaskier straightens his spine and prepares to dazzle his audience into submission. 

He spins round dramatically, plastering a wide happy grin across his face. It’s not his most eye-catching outfit but he should be able to draw attention away from the Witcher and his child surprise well enough. Presentation is key for misdirection after all. 

Jaskier glances over the small patrol quickly, filing away the small details that he can use to his advantage. Just like any other ballroom or tavern he’s stepped foot in. Reading the room is how you own it and Jaskier wouldn’t be a famous bard if he couldn’t quickly and effectively discern the lay of the land. A loud tavern full of boisterous laughter needs dance music and bawdy songs, a noble wedding with dignified guests needs jaunty jigs with easy beats to dance to and when enough wine has been drunk, a few romantic epics to get everyone in the mood. The stage is a little different but the details are the same. 

He silently curses as he recognises the dark armour and golden sun stretching across it and prays to whatever deity likes Geralt in one piece in the vain hope that things will go smoothly. But for now, it's up to him and every skill he’s honed at every banquet and party he’s ever been to, to get them through this peacefully. 

“Fine gentlemen, what can I aid such noble soldiers with today?” he greets loudly as he skips forward putting himself between the approaching soldiers and Geralt. A few of the men flinch at his volume. Jaskier notes the overly red cheeks and bloodshot eyes, the slight sway in their stance. Too much patrolling the tavern rather than the streets and very recently too.  

He has to play this right. Be loud and obnoxious and they’ll want to get rid of him quickly to ease their aching heads. Too much though and he runs the risk of raising questions. It’ll be a fine line to tread, a thin tightrope between freedom and a noose but it’s something he’s managed before and for far lesser stakes. 

“Your friend, where does he hail from?” The Captain asks shrewdly, eyeing Geralt’s exposed white hair with narrowed eyes. Jaskier rocks on his heels full of nervous energy. 

“My cousin you mean? Well he and his daughter come from Lettenhove of course! As do I,” Jaskier bows deeply, throwing as much theatricality into his performance as possible, “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. A pleasure to meet you, good sir!”

He doesn’t often drag out his nobility but the situation calls for it. Perhaps enough for the men to back off, in fear of upsetting nobility. 

“And your...cousin’s white hair? A familial trait?” The captain asks skeptically. His title isn’t enough to brush away their questions but there is a touch more hesitancy than before so Jaskier counts it in his favour.  He still grimaces a little and racks his brain for a plausible lie to help them escape the situation with as little screaming and entrails as possible. Tiny streams in deep forests are not ideal for removing Nilfgaardian guts from a Witcher’s hair after all and after this fiasco getting Geralt to agree to enter any form of civilisation will be a nightmare. 

So Jaskier does what he does best. 

He tells a story. 

He lets his face drop into a more serious expression and sidles up closer, a little too close for comfort, for a not so much conspiratorial whisper, “No, no, my good sir. Not at all. You see, it's such a terrible thing. Truly terrible. A curse.”

At least two of the men take an involuntary step back as though such a thing could be catching. Good, Jaskier thinks snidely, superstitious morons swallow a lie father easier than a wise man. 

“Twas laid upon him by a spiteful sorceress. He’s quite sensitive over the whole thing as I’m sure you can imagine,” Jaskier placed a hand over his heart as he hammed up the performance a degree or two, “My poor dear sweet cousin spurned the witches advances you see, his heart already belonged to another. Fiona’s mother, she hailed from Nilfgaard, such a sweet woman. Not that it mattered to the spiteful witch! The sorceress was quite enraged by it all and so cursed my poor cousin to bear the likeness of the ugliest creature she knew, a Witcher.”

Jaskier winces internally and sends a silent apology to Geralt and hopes the man won’t take too much offence but there’s no other option for them. 

“How unfortunate,” one of the men comments in a heartfelt manner and Jaskier dabs at his dry eye in agreement.

“Yes it is and such happenstance that we should be looking for a Witcher,” the Captain says, unconvinced. But Jaskier has the rest of his audience on tenterhooks and a crowd can sway a single mind.

He scoff’s loudly and slams his hands onto his hips. 

“Nothing but trouble I say, for we’ve been stopped by every knight and good soldier from here to the Pontar! It’s made our journey to Oxenfurt doubly long and I’m due to begin teaching next week! The delay!” Jaskier wails dramatically and the men collectively wince at his volume and shrillness, “Thankfully with my tenured position the faculty will be most forgiving of my lateness! But truly it has been nothing but trouble!”

“Hmm,” the Captain wavers and Jaskier pushes his advantage, leaning in a touch too far again. 

“I shall tell you good sir the best way to tell a Witcher from my unfortunate cousin is the swords, for Witcher’s carry two on their backs and my dear sweet cousin can only swing a pitchfork!”

“Viscount’s right Captain, no swords,” one of the men speaks up and they all turn to look at Geralt’s back, covered in a muddy cape but bereft of the notable twin swords. 

“He could have thrown them,” the Captain suggests but quietly, not fully believing his own words and Jaskier tries not to let his relief show. 

“Thrown them?! Why my dear Captain, that would be a waste of fine silver and steel! Who in their right mind would throw away a silver sword! Pah! A fool, that’s who!” 

The Captain ruminates for a few moments and then nods, “Right you are, carry on m’lord.”

Jaskier’s knees feel a little weak as the men shuffle round and begin their march back up the street they came. He waves them off jauntily despite the nausea swirling in his gut. 

“Many blessings to you and safe journey my good men!”

As soon as the men are out of sight Jaskier stumbles as the relief falls on him like a ton of bricks. Geralt grips his bicep, pulling him back up as he stares down the street after the patrol. 

“Gone?” Jaskier asks and Geralt nods. 

“Thank Melitele,” Jaskier exhales and drops his head against Geralt’s shoulder heavily. 

“Ugliest creatures?” Geralt asks and Jaskier groans.

“Darling I apologise wholeheartedly for such a lie but how else was I to excuse your appearance?”

Geralt snorts, thankfully with more amusement than anger, “Good thinking.”

“Thank you love but might I suggest putting several fields between us and them before more questions are asked?” Jaskier points out and Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, squeezing him close for a moment before letting him stand on his own steadying legs. 

Geralt takes Roach’s reins once more as Jaskier falls into step next to him, he spares a glance over his shoulder at the near empty street behind them and hopes they can put enough road between the patrol and them before nightfall to breathe a little easier. 

“Are you really a viscount Jaskier?” Ciri questions quietly, hunched over under her heavy cape atop Roach. Jaskier startles at the sudden question but settles into a sardonic smile.

“Unfortunately so my darling, though the title does have its uses here and there.”

Ciri thankfully doesn’t press the issue as she flicks her gaze over her shoulder worridily. More concerned with the soldiers than his checkered past. 

“I didn’t think they’d leave so easily,” she mumbles and Jaskier reaches over to pat her leg softly. 

“Fear not my dear, they were easy to fool and won’t be following us anytime soon.”

“How can you be so sure?” Ciri asks, her tone skeptical and a little sharp. A princess on the run yes, but still a princess and one growing from a child into a woman and not shy about demanding she be treated as such. Jaskier chuckles. 

“Simple. I saw all I needed to, to lead them astray. I’ll teach you how to read men like open books soon enough darling,” Jaskier winks and Ciri worried at her bottom lip for a few quiet moments.

“Teach me now?” 

Jaskier shares a glance with Geralt, raising an eyebrow up in question and Geralt simply nods his permission. Well if his Witcher is okay with it then who is he to argue giving the young exiled princess another knife in her growing arsenal. 

“Very well, what did you notice about them?” 

She ponders for a moment, “There weren’t that many?” Ciri offers hesitantly. Jaskier beams encouragingly. 

“Well spotted! A small patrol left in an unremarkable town. Tells us quite a bit. These fools aren’t high on the pecking order. They aren’t given more responsibility or better yet aren’t trusted with more,” Jaskier explains and Ciri leans forward in rapt attention. “What else could you see?” 

“They hesitated,” Geralt says and Jaskier turns his attention on the Witcher’s soft smile. 

“Very good my love,” Jaskier pecks Geralt’s cheek in reward, earning a giggle from Ciri. 

“That matters?” she asks. 

“Indeed, a lack of confidence speaks to their inexperience or perhaps they’ve acted hastily in the past and been reprimanded making them hesitant to act similarly again,” Jaskier explains, falling into his old teaching habits easily. 

“What else did you see,” Ciri questions curiously and Jaskier hums thoughtfully. 

“Dented armour that hasn’t yet been fixed, means coin is tight or flowing elsewhere. Mud caked into clothes and bulging chest plates. These men have become lazy and spend more nights in a tavern than marching around town. Ruddy cheeks and bloodshot eyes tell me they enjoy their drink, a bit too much most likely. Given the hour it was either a heavy night of drinking with a spectacular hangover or they’ve just come from the tavern. Whichever it is, their minds and body long for beds not battle and that my fair girl is where you can take advantage,” Jaskier lists and Ciri looks suitably impressed with his observations. 

“Enough to confuse them?”

“Perhaps enough to lose them in a winding tale with dramatic flair,” Jaskier shrugs, remembering many a glazed drunken gaze and how he used it to his advantage in the past. 

“The loudness helped too,” Geralt offers slyly and Ciri laughs as Jaskier pretends to take offence though he preens at the small but fond smile on his Witcher’s face and the ease settling around Ciri’s shoulders once more. 

“Nothing makes a drunken soldier recoil quicker than a loud bright bard,” Jaskier winks.

[all-hail-the-witcher]

leaves

this started as a hc but turned into a long thing about geralt being a huge softie.  enjoy.

___

jaskier collects leaves that he thinks are pretty during the fall and presses them in his song writing notebook so he can look at them during the winter when all the leaves are gone. and, he'd never admit this to anyone, but he knows exactly where each leaf came from, and what he and geralt were doing when he found them, so they help him stay close to geralt in the cold months when he's away at kaer morhen.

geralt doesnt understand the fascination cause “they're just leaves jaskier” and gets kinda grumpy when jaskier walks extra slow during the fall to admire and inspect the leaves. but he secretly enjoys the way that jaskiers face lights up in front of their camp fire at night as he shows geralt each leaf he collected that day and tucks them safely into the pages of his notebook. 

jaskier used to show them to roach to inspect but after she ate a particularly beautiful one on accident he does not allow her anywhere near his precious leaves.

one year jaskier and geralt part ways a little earlier than normal, geralt deciding to begin the trek to kaer morhen sooner than he normally would due to a lack of contracts so jaskier goes to oxenfurt earlier as well. the leaves are just beginning to change color as they part ways. 

a few nights into the journey geralt is making camp for himself and roach when he sees a bright red leaf sitting on the forest floor, exactly the kind of leaf that jaskier would pick up and admire and wax poetry about before tucking it into his notebook. but jaskier isn't there, and geralt feels a little pang. he glares at the leaf the entire time he's setting up camp. 

the camp fire has burned down to the embers by the time geralt is ready to lay out his bed roll, but he can still see the leaf at the corner of his vision. he sighs and gets up, knowing that it will continue to bother him unless he does something about it. he picks up the leaf, brushes off the dirt far more lightly than he would ever care to admit, and goes to tuck it in to his saddle bag in the roll of parchment he keeps on the off chance he has to write a letter. 

roach snorts at him. “shut up,” he mutters back. “its just a leaf.” roach nuzzles his arm. “no, i don't miss him. im just...bringing him a souvenir. we had to part early this year.” another snort. “yes, i know you know. but he didn't get to see the leaves this year. i don't want him to be disappointed.” roach headbuts him as if to say, you dumb witcher. geralt ignores this, but gives her some nice pats before retiring to his bedroll. 

in the next town geralt buys a random book. he doesnt know what it is, he bought the cheapest one he could find. but he's not going to read it, he just needs something to keep jaskiers leaf in so it doesnt crumble to bits before the spring. he swears roach laughs at him for that. 

throughout his trip up to kaer morhen, geralt finds himself progressively walking slower, taking time to admire the leaves as the bard had once done. 

he picks up the second leaf a week later after a battle with some drowners. he’s heading back into the town, having come across his first contract in weeks, holding the head and covered in river muck and guts when he sees a perfectly yellow leaf on the ground in front of him. he picks it up gingerly, trying his very best not to get guts on it (and he nearly succeeds). if the alderman thinks its weird, a witcher coming back with a drowner head in one hand and a yellow maple leaf in the other, he doesnt say anything. roach does tho, whinnying the second she sees it in geralts hand. he ignores her, and presses the maple leaf into the book a few pages after the brilliant red one. 

after that he adds to the collection more frequently. an reddish oak leaf he finds on the ground outside of a tavern, a brilliant orange leaf he finds at his campsite, a yellowish orange leaf the size of his face that he finds along the road and so on. roach makes fun of him every time he reaches for the book, but geralt ignores her. they're merely souvenirs for jaskier, nothing more. 

collecting leaves slows him down considerably, but he cant bring himself to care. he's even disappointed when the last of the leaves disappear and the first snow sets in. 

but that doesnt stop him from collecting things to add to his book. he gathers different small pine branches, holly leaves and other things that he knows jasper has never seen before because they grow too far north. he becomes so caught up in his hunt for interesting plants that the snow is already falling thickly by the time he reaches kaer morhe, despite him leaving for the keep so early. eskel and lambert chide him for being late, but he ignores them, happy that he managed to fill most of the book with leaves for jaskier.

that whole winter the book remains in the bottom of geralts pack, wrapped carefully in his spare shirt. he thinks about it often, but doesnt dare bring it out for fear that one of his brothers will catch him and make fun of him for being a sap. he's not a sap, he just found some leaves for his friend. 

winter drags on far too long in geralts opinion and leaves as soon as the passes are clear, antsy to get back to his friend and give him the book. but on his way down he discovers yet another beautiful thing that jaskier would love: wildflowers. roach is slightly more appreciative of this because wildflowers are things that she is allowed to eat. geralt often feeds her them to see if she approves. if she spits it out or refuses to eat it, then it doesnt make it into the book.

in the space he has left in the book he fills it with wildflowers, sometimes going out of his way to collect them. there are buttercups, dandelions, little blue ones the color of jaskiers eyes, poppies, apple blossoms, daffodils, and even a few rose petals that he buys from a stall in a market. the book is brimming with nature now. he has to be careful not to lose any of his treasures. 

finally, he arrives at his and jaskiers meeting spot. he stables roach who gives him a headbut of encouragement and he grabs the book carefully wrapped in his shirt before he makes his way to the tavern, suddenly very nervous. 

jaskiers voice is already wafting out of the tavern as he draws closer, having beat geralt to the meeting spot for once, and geralt hesitantly steps inside, knowing jaskiers eyes will be on him the second he goes in. he’s overcome with thoughts, what if jaskier hates it? what if he thinks it's dumb? what if he laughs at him? 

he enters anyway, because he's a witcher for fucks sake and he can handle his friends scrutiny. immediately he sees jaskier, sitting in the corner, working a crowd. as always, jaskiers eyes snap to him the second he steps foot in the tavern and he winks. geralt gives him the smallest nod and heads to his table in the corner after ordering an ale. he tucks the book out of sight on the bench next to him. 

minutes later jaskier barrels over, eyes bright with the life of the crowd he had been entertaining. 

“geralt!” he exclaims. “finally. i thought you stood me up, you big oaf. i never make it here before you do, i thought you may have been eaten! although im not sure by what exactly, i don't know what species has a taste for witches, dragons maybe? well never mind, youre here now and you better have a good excuse for being so late, even im starting to get bored of this town and you know how i love towns...”

geralt smiles into his ale, he missed this, but he'd never admit it. his eyes flick over to the book sitting on the seat beside him, unsure whether or not he should give it to him. 

jaskier, being the observant fucker he is, notices. “geralt what do you have on the seat there? is it a monster head? you know what happened last time you tried to hide a monster head in a tavern, i thought the town would chase us out with pitchforks they were so angry! surely you wouldn't-”

“here.” geralt mutters, cutting him off, unwilling to listen to that horrible story. 

jaskier stares at the lump of black fabric on the table. “geralt, why are you giving me your shirt? its not really my style, i’m not one for black really, makes my skin look too pale.”

“open it.” he says into his ale. 

jaskier does, and stares at the book dumbfounded. “a history book? geralt you know that i am a master of the seven liberal arts, im a professor at oxenfurt! i have all these boring books in the library, i didn't need you to get me one, although it is very thoughtful of you to- oh”

geralt, tired of hearing jaskiers babbling, flips open the book, revealing the bits of nature he had spent their time apart collecting. jasper is silent, which geralt takes as a bad sign. maybe roach was right, maybe he didn't like it, maybe he'd wasted his time for nothing. 

“cause you....you didn't get to see...the leaves this year,” he mutters, looking into the tavern, unable to see the inevitable disappointment on jaskiers face. 

“oh, geralt,” jaskier whispers. “you collected all of these for me?”

geralt doesnt say anything, but his silence is enough. 

“this is why you were late. you were collecting these, for me.”

“its okay if you don't..like them” geralt bites out. 

“oh no no no no, geralt, they're wonderful.” 

geralt looks at jaskier and sees him touching the pine branch he took form the trees outside kaer morhen, tears brimming in his eyes. “you don't hate it?”

“no, love.” jaskier smiles softly. “i adore it. and i adore you. and id love it if you tell me about all of them, please.”

for the first time in years geralt feels something like a smile tugging at his lips and he picks up the pine branch from jaskiers hand, telling him how it came from the tree outside his window, the one that he looked at everyday as a kid growing up. the same tree that lambert once dared him to climb and he nearly did before being spotted by vesemir and scolded at. jasper laughs and sniffs the pine carefully before placing the branch back in the book. 

they pour over the book for hours at their table in the tavern. geralt cant remember the last time he's talked this much, much less about himself of all things, but jaskier is more than happy to listen. 

__

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