Writing, Crying, and Doodles

+18 | Artist/Writer/Gamer | Inconsistent & Never Active This blog is under construction! Please give me some patience and I'll give you some art!

[scribblesinthevoid]

Masterlist + Info Page

Welcome to my blog! This post is a brief introduction to myself and the content I'll be posting here, as well as a way to organize my ramblings and doodles to make them easier to find. Expect a mix of fandom and original content, while I try my best to give you something coherent.

Writing is under #scribblesinthevoid | Art is under #doodlesinthevoid

This is an +18 blog! Please do not interact if you are under 18!

Meet the Artist!

I know, I know. My handwriting is unreadable, you have no idea what my intro image even says. Here's a typed TLDR, with the basics.

My name is Dottie, but you can also call me Scribbles!

My pronouns are she/her, and I'm 19 years old. I live in America, and I'm currently a college student, so I tend to be very inconsistent with my posts :(

My sona is Cookie Run inspired, and vanilla birthday cake flavored.

Relevant Links:

My Artfight Page: ScribblesInTheVoid

My Ao3 Account: SweetCreamDreams

My Instagram: @ sweet.cream.dreams

Fandoms I'm In:

Sonic the Hedgehog

Transformers

Persona (3, 4, 5, and soon to be 6)

Vocaloid/UTAU

Cookie Run: Kingdom

Phantom of the Opera

My Happy Marriage

Sailor Moon

Inuyasha

Five Nights at Freddy's

Bendy and the Ink Machine

The Legend of Zelda

Splatoon

Heaven Official's Blessing (TGCF)

Scum Villain's Self-Saving System

Mistakenly Saving the Villain

The Freak Circus of Horrors

A Date With Death

Kingdom of Marionettes

...and many, many more.

Fandom Content Masterlist:

Sonic the Hedgehog

Arcade Machines Suck - A Shadow the Hedgehog x Fem!Reader isekai, written by someone who REALLY doesn't like isekai tropes. Fair warning, I did give the reader a name, but not physical descriptors. SFW.

AMS Headcanons (OLD) - Ancient headcanons I wrote during the drafting process for Arcade Machines Suck, trying to study the Sonic characters more deeply. Old, cringe, and SFW.

The Freak Circus of Horrors

TFC Mafia Ideas - Drabble/rambling ideas I had about a potential mafia au, featuring Pierrot, Jester, and Harlequin. SFW but comes with a few violence/gore/death trigger warnings, because it's a mafia au.

TFC Mafia Ideas Pt. 2 - Drabble/rambling ideas I had about a potential mafia au, this time featuring Ticket Taker and Dottore. SFW but comes with a few violence/gore death trigger warnings, because it's a mafia au.

The Enforcer's Usual - The entirety of Pierrot's route in the mafia AU, posted to Ao3 and updated irregularly. More detailed tags are on Ao3

TFC Mafia Au - Pierrot, Ch. 1 - A tentative chapter one, detailing Mafia!Pierrot's first encounter with an AFAB!MC. SFW but trigger warnings for mentions of violence and death.

~ More to come, this page is still under construction ~

Original Character Content Masterlist:

Title to be determined. I've been working on this story for almost ten years now and I still don't have a title. I know. To be read in the order listed:

Dawn of the Second Cycle - A historical log of the important religious characters and how the universe came to be. (WIP)

End of the Second Cycle - A historical log of the downfall of said important religious characters and the ones who carry on their legacy. (WIP)

Records Recovered #01 - Translated logs recovered from a dimension that no longer exists: A dictionary of relevant terms from the Second Cycle and predicted terms for the Third Cycle. (WIP)

Home is a Place that Doesn't Exist - The origin story of Célestine and Andras Vallux (WIP)

Records Recovered #02 - Unredacted files of Célestine and Andras Vallux (WIP)

Records Recovered #03 - Redacted, limited files on the entity known as Milliana (WIP)

~ More to come, this page is still under construction ~

Thank you for visiting my blog! May you have a wonderful rest of your day or night <3

[scribblesinthevoid]

TFC Mafia AU - Pierrot, Ch. 2

<- Previous Chapter | Ao3 Link | Next Chapter ->

I still exist!! I am alive!! I am just deeply, deeply swamped with IRL obligations and doing my best to make sure I meet those!! I am in the fall semester of hell and it hasn't even officially started yet. Thank you all for your patience while I work on bringing you guys more Mafia!Pierrot, as well as the other Mafia!TFC monsters!! Ch. 1 of this is also getting a comic adaptation, so stay tuned!!

Pierrot's route is AFAB!Reader

2.7k words | SFW - Trigger warnings for mentions of violence, death

This blog is +18. Minors DNI

Sensation is an afterthought, when one is wholly fixated on one particular thing. Pierrot does not feel the cold bite of the rain sinking through his clothes and beading on his hair anymore. He does not hear the din of late-night traffic that eternally engulfs the city, nor does he register the blinking colors of storefronts, advertisements, grinning LED displays — the world is beyond his reach right now. Or, more accurately, he is beyond the world— entirely absorbed in his thoughts and the single sensory input that he cares about presently: the small paper cup of steaming hot tea in his hands.

The warmth of such a simple object is incredible, almost electric, and he has to temper his trembling hands from crushing the flimsy design entirely. The heat rolling off the cardboard sleeve is certainly because of the contents inside, but Pierrot chooses to delude himself a little more, and imagine the lingering heat of your hands around the cup instead. How sweet you looked, handing it directly to him with that sugary tone of yours. How compassionate, to spare this filthy, bloodstained monster a tiny capsule of warmth in such a dreary night.

How tender you smelled, notes of adrenaline spiking your scent in the air as you feigned bravery for his sake. For once, Pierrot is grateful for the lack of a mouth in his mask— he did not want you to see him salivating behind it and be frightened. And yet, in the same moment, Pierrot is disappointed once more— how is he supposed to drink the tea you bought and made for him when he cannot lift his mask and take it to his lips? Irritation almost sours Pierrot's mood completely, but it is quickly subsided when he finally takes note of his surroundings again.

He's on East and 22nd again. There's a safehouse just a few blocks away, in a seedier corner of the downtown area. If he can just make it over that way, he'll be able to enjoy the fruit of your labor (and terror) without reservation. With the wild, animal obsession causing his lips to curl and his heart to pulse in deep, erratic thrums.

The safehouse. He needs to focus on getting to the safehouse, before your tea gets cold. Before he can properly indulge himself in this rare delight— a light in the dreary, dark, bloodstained cesspit his life— his survival has become. He's grateful to have scrubbed his hands raw in the restroom before they brushed against yours— even through gloves, your hands should not be made impure by him. He had looked, for far longer than he should have, at your hands; memorizing the shape and the form— staring a little too intently when you handed him his cup of tea. You were, for the duration of his visit, positively mesmerizing, enchanting, utterly perfect in every way— it makes Pierrot dizzy to dwell on in a most delicious manner.

How deeply lucky he is, to be interrupted from the dull repetition of 'corrections' and 'warnings' and 'dealings', as the others speak of it. How incredibly fortunate Pierrot was, to stumble into the cafe you work at. How thrilling, to feel a rush once again— not hunter's delight, but something better, something sinful and sweet and deeply intoxicating! A craving that exceeds the hungers of the flesh— love! It must be love, and Pierrot knows this. Love— not at first sight— but at first gentle word, at first hesitant smile, at first cup of tea. How deeply, terribly lucky Pierrot is! Fate heard his weary indifference to the world and shined a light upon it instantly. A light he will seek out, a star to guide him, a warmth to cling to and sink into, if only time allows.

He will make time allow it. Pierrot knows he frightened you. He saw, for the briefest of moments, the same flicker of dread behind your eyes that always follows his sparse encounters with human life. Instinct flared within you, he could smell it in the rush of your blood— but your control was admirable. Endearing, even, how gracefully you carried yourself through the entire interaction. The fact you did not scream or plead or turn him away does terrible things to his poor, pathetic heart.

He will have to do whatever it takes to be in your sights and touch your gentle hands again. And again. And again.

A crosswalk signal begins to chime, and Pierrot grins under his mask once more, a shaky sound of strangled delight escaping the rain-soaked mobster. Yes, he is in love, and love is so demanding— but it is also so rewarding. What a pleasant surprise, to be reinvigorated so. He ought to return to that cozy little cafe soon— when he finishes Jester's next few jobs for him, of course. He certainly didn't leave a large enough tip for you, so of course he must return soon and rectify his insolent mistake! Yes, yes, he simply must see you again, for a proper apology, and a proper introduction. Maybe… perhaps hearing his voice will lessen the intimidating presence that makes you shiver so much. He ardently hopes to turn the glimmer of fear in your eyes into a sparkle of delight— to impress upon you an equal depth of affection and obsession. Perhaps even more than that.

How deeply, terribly unlucky you are for having crossed paths with him.

…

Usually, a closing shift doesn't take this much out of you. Usually, you don't have to deal with a creepy, mute Dell'arte goon giving you a multitude of mini-heart attacks in the span of ten minutes.

You really, really hope that, to whoever's listening, this will not become another usual aspect of your daily routine.

You also really hope that the rain doesn't last all week, because you were really wanting to take Milo out to the park on your singular day off. Plus— your clothes are soaked, and the radiator is broken, so you can't risk a phenomenal fire hazard to avoid shelling out a heap of change to the laundromat's shitty dryers downstairs. Perhaps a trip to the thrift store for a raincoat is in order— if you have enough left over this month to make it happen.

Somehow, in the rain, the four-block walk from the cafe to your apartment feels like the voyage from Troy to Ithaca, a vengeful Poseidon mocking your earlier brush with death in masked form by chilling you to the very marrow in your bones— soaking your hair to your scalp in sticky ringlets, cars splashing the puddles up to your knees as you stride quickly across the concrete. The rusty gate— the one in the alleyway that pretends to guard the slummy complex you currently reside in— juts out onto the walkway with little warning, swinging wildly into the wind as you speed up your steps. Exhaling in relief, you turn the corner, finally finding a little reprieve from the downpour under an awning that hasn't seen repair in far too long.

You made it, somehow. And hopefully not late enough for Carol to prod at your for extra money you don't have. You're tired, and your ankles hurt, and you really need a shower— you quietly hope the hot water isn't acting up again. One hand on the slick metal railing, you start to climb the stairs in cautious steps, avoiding the deeper puddles and blindly searching for your keys in your bag with your other hand. The jingling of your keyring taunts you for a bit, but eventually you grasp the serrated end of your apartment key and stop in front of the familiar numbers that you reluctantly call home.

218, marked by three iron numbers that were screwed onto the door ages ago and stained it with the awful orange pigment of rust. You don't bother to look up and grimace at the worsening of the drippy stains with the torrential downpour— your focus is on jamming your keys in the lock and turning it open quickly, already sliding your sneakers off to toss them by the door once you're inside. No sooner do you have the door shut behind you, before you jump out of your skin for the second time tonight— Carol is right there, arms crossed, shoes on, bag slung over her shoulder.

"Well, I'm glad to see you're still in one piece. I almost thought you got run over on the way here— it certainly took you long enough to get back." There's not even an attempt made to filter the obvious contempt you're being held in— Carol's brows are pinched, her lips pulled into a frown that clearly damns you for daring to inconvenience an equally-broke-as-you college student.

"Carol! I'm— sorry, I really am." A weary sigh escapes you, your shoulders sagging as you meet the girl's stern gaze. "I got held up at the cafe, and— is Milo—?"

"He's in his little bouncy-chair-thing. I couldn't get him to fall asleep, so he's your problem now."

A grimace tugs at your lips— it seems your son is intent on prolonging the already horribly long night this has been. Excellent. "…ah. Well, thank you, Carol. Let me just get you your money—"

"Are you going to pay up for the extra half-an-hour I had to wait here for you to remember I have places to be?" Each word is punctuated by an impatient, arrhythmic tapping of Carol's foot— a sound so deeply annoying that you're almost tempted to shove her out the door and leave the girl to her own devices in the rain— but the slim presence of two hastily-folded ten-dollar bills in your pocket prevents the incredibly tempting act from occurring.

"…You know what? Yeah— I can. I'm sorry I made you wait, Carol. Thank you for staying with Milo while I was gone." The words taste a little sour leaving your mouth, humbling when you'd like nothing more than to snap at her in exhaustion, or keep the whole fortunate tip to yourself— but they feel necessary. You accomplish nothing by scorning the only person who conveniently lives nearby and is willing to take staggeringly low amounts of cash to keep your son cared for when you have to work late shifts.

And perhaps Carol knows this, because her lips purse as she accepts the crisp ten dollars you hand her with a slightly cooled demeanor— maybe she wasn't really expecting you to pay her, when usually you can barely afford to have her around at all.

The gesture seems to have taken the wind out of the young woman's sails, silence briefly filling the little entryway as she tucks the money in her back pocket. You're not really sure what to say until Carol speaks up again, very pointedly avoiding eye contact with you.

"I'm free next week if you need me to sit again, but the kid's been getting fussy and I— I'll be free. You know where to find me."

The words she says are brusque— tinged with just a hint of embarrassment, but honest, at the very least. Carol needs your money just as badly as you need a safe person to watch after your son— the daycare down the street only does so much, and she takes a wage any professional caregiver would scoff at. Desperation is familiar to you both, so you swallow your annoyance when she brushes past you to depart— shutting the door firmly behind her.

Now, it's only you and your son left in this dreary place.

Well, you think, dreary isn't quite the right word for it anymore. You had cleaned it up as best as you could before even taking Milo inside for the first time. The shoe rack you slide your sneakers on was taken from outside a dumpster on a rainy night not unlike this one. The side table you throw your wet bag and keys on was dragged inside by your own hands when a neighbor said they didn't want it anymore. The rug at your feet was carefully purchased from a thrift store after a discount day sale— your apartment is cozy, in the way an antique store with mismatched decor and an odd, musty smell covered up by scented wax warmers is cozy. It only feels dreary again because you have been so thoroughly demoralized and exhausted that even this feels like another of your long string of failures.

That feeling quickly leaves you when you round the corner and see your son.

Milo is an incredibly happy kid— the doctor told you as much when you brought him back for his last month's check-in. Hardly fussy, hardly prone to crying or being difficult to put to sleep. The problem with all these sentiments being that Milo is only these things when he's constantly in your arms. The minute your velcro baby loses sight of you or isn't being held… you get the temper tantrums and screaming that Carol has learned to either tune out , quiet with a bottle, or solve with turning on a Baby Einsteins DVD and leaving Milo in his favorite bouncer in the living room.

Conversely, this also means Milo is very excited to see you when you do return to his sights, the four-and-a-half-month-old baby squealing with delight when he sees his mama approach the squeaky bouncing chair and kneel down to his level. His motor skills are still in the works, but he's capable of raising his arms and wiggling around until you unbuckle him from his bouncy restraints and scoop him up into your damp arms. There goes your plans to shower first and then put Milo down for bed— he won't be happy if you try to reverse the order of things now, and… you also don't particularly care how soaked you are now. Milo is, in the most literal sense of the phrase, a bundle of joy— tiny fingers attempting to curl around your wet locks of hair, happy coos and babbles escaping him as he nuzzles his round little head into your shoulder.

It's healing to hold him, almost. Something about the innocent, unfiltered love in such a tiny person is making the stress of the night practically melt out of you. You turn your head to press a kiss against Milo's forehead, and start to laugh as he reaches reflexively for the spot with his chubby little hand— as if he could grasp the gesture of affection between his fingers, and his slow bewilderment when he can't is positively adorable.

This is why you put up with the shitty customers at work and the long hours. This is why you scrape together every cent you can to pay back debts that aren't even yours. This is why you suffer, and struggle, and work yourself to the bone— this is why you deal with surprise mafioso customers coming in after closing and terrorizing your poor nerves. This is the star of your heart, the only person in your life left to love, so he's getting all of it. Milo would get every star in the sky if you could reach up and pull them down for him— but for now, the sticker ones you put up in his corner of your room will have to do.

Your shower can wait a little bit longer. You can deal with the outside world tomorrow. For right now, the Dell'artes and the people at work and the uncaring bastards who put you in this position can all go fuck themselves. You've got more important things to worry about— namely, your son, who is now trying to fit your nametag in his mouth for the 80th time.

With any luck, this too shall pass, and you'll never see another of those masked nightmares again. Tonight was a fluke, surely, and you'll go back to counting tips and hoarding what little savings you can accrue until your account is settled, and you never have to even think about the Dell'artes again.

…

It really is a shame that your luck is so phenomenally terrible, because you only make it to a little over a week before that pale-masked freak is back in your workplace. What divine entity did you piss off so horrifically that you've met a member of the mafia twice now— and that he keeps showing up after you've already closed up for the night!!

I'm... so very tired... crunched this out between IRL stuff in the span of three days, rewrote a bunch... I need more energy drink, but I don't want my heart to explode. Chapter 3 might take a minute, but I'll try to post more mini comics and doodles to make up for it. Thank you for sticking with me for this long! (P.S. Pierrot definitely burnt his tongue on the tea when he drank it a little too eagerly-- and baby Milo is about 4 or 5 months old. Child development is hard to write naturally guys ;;)

[lmwrenwrites]

Writing isn’t my hobby, actually, I am cosmically cursed. I am going insane in my room.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[scribblesinthevoid]

TFC Mafia AU - MC Designs

hey. I meant to have chapter 2 of The Enforcer's Usual out by... earlier this week. and some stuff came up in my personal life, so that... won't be happening until later this week. I'm sorry y'all, I'm trying my best,,

In the meantime, here's some doodles of the MC designs for each character's "route" in my TFC Mafia AU. Pierrot's MC is the only gendered/AFAB one-- the others are all gender-neutral. In lieu of the bald y/n curse, I just mirrored each monster's haircut onto their respective love interests. Also, baby Milo makes his first appearance! Drawing kids, babies especially, is so much harder than it looks,,

i got soooooo tired making these... and making Dottore's MC design, the proportions sure are something. uhm. I'll make better art laterrrr. sorry that my handwriting is so unreadable. thank you for looking at this now please go read my terrible thoughts about the mafia AU

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Fanfic writers, reblog if you’re okay with people sharing the links to your fics to their friends and/or for fic rec posts without having to ask for your permission first

(I saw a debate about whether or not it was okay for people to share fic links around without asking the authors first, since some authors may not be comfortable with the links to their fics being shared around on twitter or tumblr. so I thought this post could be a blanket permission for authors who were okay with the links to their fics being shared around!)

[brainstreams]

"Write what you know." Brother I don't know anything.

[scribblesinthevoid]

Artfight Attacks 6-13/20

With Artfight finally finished, I'm posting the last of my attacks here! I didn't quite make it to my goal of 20 attacks this year, but I'm glad to have participated and I can't wait for next year's fight!! I did more than last year at least, even though the last seven were done in the last 48 hours of the event,,

There's also a few joke attacks in this one, which, I might do more often in the future...

In order of first to last, we have:

Merciare Kestrel, from Lorraine_ION on Artfight

Zelenka, from Julsyberry on Artfight

Melody Hart from @littlestardew16

Capri and Biscotti from Takoyaki-0913 on Artfight

Amaji from Kimschievious on Artfight

Elias and Claude from Carousxvi on Artfight

& 8 are Nate and Trixie from @spymango

I had so much fun drawing everybody's characters!! Already counting down to next year's artfight hehehehehehe

[scribblesinthevoid]

The Enforcer’s Usual - Ch 1 Comic WIP

if I don’t post the wip for this it’s never seeing the goddamn light of day as a finished product soooo… here. Uncropped, unlabeled pages of TEU’s inevitable chapter 1 comic. I’m tired,,

If you can parse out what the hell is happening here, you get a cookie,,

This awful thing is panning out to be 20+ pages long so it’s probably going to be super lazy when I finish lines and monochrome coloring. I’ve already decided that full chapter comics will be exclusive to only the first chapters of each TFC mafia route, and the rest will be mini comics… because with how long my chapter outlines are?? I’m not doing this 10 million more times TT

No finalized MC design for this route but ideas are in the works and will be posted (probably) before this comic is finished. Please hold me to posting it or else,,

anyways go read TEU because I need to be held accountable to posting chapter 2 before next week hits. thank youuuuuuuu

[scribblesinthevoid]

Since posting this, uhm,, the final page total of sketches comes out to 28. twenty fucking eight. I,,

i will do my best to make it a readable, enjoyable experience,,

aughhhhh....

[scribblesinthevoid]

The Enforcer’s Usual - Ch 1 Comic WIP

if I don’t post the wip for this it’s never seeing the goddamn light of day as a finished product soooo… here. Uncropped, unlabeled pages of TEU’s inevitable chapter 1 comic. I’m tired,,

If you can parse out what the hell is happening here, you get a cookie,,

This awful thing is panning out to be 20+ pages long so it’s probably going to be super lazy when I finish lines and monochrome coloring. I’ve already decided that full chapter comics will be exclusive to only the first chapters of each TFC mafia route, and the rest will be mini comics… because with how long my chapter outlines are?? I’m not doing this 10 million more times TT

No finalized MC design for this route but ideas are in the works and will be posted (probably) before this comic is finished. Please hold me to posting it or else,,

anyways go read TEU because I need to be held accountable to posting chapter 2 before next week hits. thank youuuuuuuu

[vihyura]

truly

[snowflakeb0ttles]

[sagethegremlin]

[scribblesinthevoid]

TFC Mafia AU - Pierrot, Ch. 1

Hi. After some agonizing, I made a tentative Chapter 1 for Pierrot's route in the Mafia AU. Outlining is in work for the others' initial writings, but I have more planned than just this one chapter. I finally figured out how Pierrot and his MC will meet in this AU!! Please tell me if you guys like this because I've been writing and rewriting and rewriting to no end!!

Pierrot's route is AFAB!Reader

2.9k words | Trigger warnings for mentions of violence and death

This blog is +18. Minors please do not interact

It's raining in the city tonight.

No, calling it rain alone is an understatement. Every landmark between soaked cement and cold, reflective sheets of glass have all been swallowed up by a downpour damn near torrential. Lamposts have become lonely lighthouses in between miasmas of dreary, bitterly cold fog— guiding the last of the fools who wander through weather as dismal as this to brave the crosswalks and angry honks of hurried drivers and taxis that can't yet clock out for the night.

Everyone on the streets is in a rush to go home. Every employee of each corner store, cafe, supermarket and late night office is eyeing the clock with restless anticipation— the kind only unforgiving, inclement weather brings upon us all. An eagerness to be relieved of the cold, the ache, and the somber loneliness rain instills into the common passerby.

Tonight, however, one tall shadow looms as it wanders, absent of an umbrella, heavy coat drenched and the suit beneath beginning to take a similar beating from the sopping wet garment. This shadow's pace is unhurried, uncaring as others pass, falter, and then cross the street desperately, to spare themselves attention that would never be cast their way to begin with. Tonight, a pale-masked Pierrot is aimless, untethered, and entirely alone.

Well, not alone. His thoughts are rather loud, despite his oath to remain silent 'till his death. Many of them do not make sense— which, in and of itself, does make sense— he's never quite all there after his rampages. No— dealings. He's supposed to call them dealings, as Jester insisted, chiding him with some unbearably twisted gentleness. It can hardly be called a 'deal', what he does. Jester is the one who drafts and brokers deals. Bilheteiro is the one who carries them from place to place. Even damnable, useless Harlequin does his share of negotiations over shared cigarettes and sweetly worded lies.

All Pierrot does is clean up when things go south.

All Pierrot does is threaten, without need for words— his presence alone usually does the trick.

All Pierrot does is break, and maim, and kill.

Simply put, when he arrives, there are no more deals. To call what he does 'dealings' is just Jester's way of attempting to soften an old wound that's already begun to rot at itself.

It's not as though Pierrot feels remorse for what he does— just that the actions he takes no longer fill him with any type of satisfaction. There is no more vicious delight when blood spatters against his mask and wispy white locks. There is no more hunter's glee when he hears the snapping and cracking of bones and cartilage beneath his hands.

His hands, his hands— Pierrot was careless washing his hands at the docks. His job was too simple, entirely unfulfilling, and it made him sloppy. He flexes his hands in his coat pocket, again and again, almost writhing in his discomfort. Pierrot tucked his hands away too soon. Retracted his claws too fast— tugged his leather gloves over them too quickly. There's blood in the webbing of his fingers, tacky and viscous. All his loud thoughts are now only of how terrible this feeling is— skin on blood on leather— and how Jester is going to admonish him when he gets back. It doesn't matter that they all have a dozen spare gloves each, for ripping through them and staining them with blood is all too common— but Jester's inevitably going to be upset that Pierrot forgot himself and got sloppy. Careless. His only purpose is to kill and to do it effectively, and he can't even do that much right.

He has to get these goddamn gloves off his hands. He needs to wash them again— scrub them raw until even the memory of the blood spatter is cleaned from his fingers. The problem is that he needs to keep the gloves on. That's Jester's rule— one of many. Every part stays covered, Pierrot. You know why. Take a spare pair with you. Don't be careless.

…Pierrot needs to wash his hands, now. If only to feel the cold tap water over the freezing rain— if only to feel something besides the empty nothingness gnawing at his insides. His options are limited, his mask obvious as an arbiter of death and disaster— he really doesn't want to duck in and out of storefronts that may not even have a place for him to wipe the blood flaking between his fingers, but he has no choice. The risk must be taken— besides, who could summon the courage to turn away a mask like his? With a single-minded goal, Pierrot enters the first building to his right with the lights still on at this ungodly hour, and steels himself for an unbearable exchange.

…

The door chimes all too brightly with a masked stranger's unceremonious entrance, having to lower his head a small measure to avoid knocking his forehead into the doorframe or losing his hat. Already, his coat is dripping water onto the floor, shoes squelching against gleaming tile. Here stands a porcelain-faced, soaking wet intruder, two minutes past closing time.

…You really should have locked the door when you had the chance.

Unfortunately, you don't seem to pick up on your blunder until you turn on your heel, brows pinched at the disgustingly gleeful sound of the door chime— but you smooth out your smile anyways, hoping to usher this lost customer out quickly for the sake of time—!

"—oh! I'm so sorry, but we're actually…" Your voice trails off, a practiced, delightfully sweet tone dissolving when you finally look up at the intruder. Anything you could have said to this looming stranger dies on your tongue immediately, the minute your eyes land on his face. His mask, rather. The chill of the outside world seems to have followed him in— or perhaps the shiver that crawls up your spine should be properly attributed to some innate, hardwired survival instinct.

A mask. A Mask. A Dell'arte.

You have no time to formulate a proper response, a decent excuse. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he isn't here for collections. Already the stranger approaches the counter, approaches you. What does he approach for? What does he want? Was your last payment not enough? The sound of his leather soles tracking in small puddles of water is very odd— and briefly, your mind wanders off to how annoying it will be to mop the floor once this stranger leaves— but then the masked mobster gets closer, one gloved hand sliding beneath his coat to reach for something, and your mind goes blank. Is he armed? He could be armed— he could kill you right now, right here, with no witnesses to mark your death. But why? This can't be the end— you've always made your payments on time! There should be no reason for the Dell'artes to send someone after you, not now! A plea works its way up your trembling throat— desperate and aching, an appeal to humanity; Please, I have a son at home, don't do this. I'm all he has. A little longer, please—!

The masked stranger's weapon of choice does not, thankfully, turn out to be some horrible design of blade or firearm— but instead, a notepad and singular black pen. The notepad itself is warped and damp around the edges, creased in one corner where it seems to have been stuffed in this man's pocket rather hastily. The pen, on the other hand, has an elegant sheen to its body-- a classy fountain pen. Twice now, you've lost your words entirely. Without so much as a quiet exhale, the speechless stranger places it down on the counter between you and begins to write something down in big, loopy letters.

Restroom?

You look at the notepad as he slides it to you, blinking slowly as if that will make the scribbling handwriting change. It doesn't. You look up, then, at the owner of the notepad, at empty, unblinking eyeholes carved into a face with no expression to denote passive indifference or killing intent.

You swallow, and some saccharine customer service voice possesses you before your good sense can.

"Ah,.. the restrooms are in the back, around the corner, but you need a—" You flinch, a realization of the words you're speaking finally connecting to your rational mind.

You almost told a member of the fucking mafia that he needs to buy something before he can get the code to the restroom.

Dear god.

The stranger tilts his head at you, slow and unblinking like some terrible Galatea with an aura of death— and the action forces you finally return to your better senses. There is an obvious member of the Dell'arte family in your workplace. You need to get him out of here as fast as possible, by any means necessary. You cannot stammer and stumble and treat him like any other customer. If it's access to the restroom he wants, he'll get it.

"…Let me just get you the code, sir. I'll have to print a receipt to get the system to let you in." Anything to get him out of here! Anything to keep him from reaching into his coat again and pulling out something of an actual weapon. With a press of two buttons, the register drawer opens with a pop— making the stranger flinch just slightly, but you hardly notice. You've got three dollars to depart with, after all— three crumpled bills from your share of today's tips— now becoming emergency protective money against the mob. The irony would sicken you, if you weren't so laser-focused on surviving this present encounter.

Ringing the pale-masked mobster up for one small to-go cup of tea, you tear off the receipt as soon as it's printed and circle the still-warm numbers at the bottom for him with a cheap plastic ballpoint, sliding it towards him across the counter in a fashion similar to how he passed his initial note. The man seems to hesitate slightly, before taking the flimsy receipt between two fingers and looking back up at you. Down at you, rather. Jesus, he's tall. You smile, in a way you hope to be perceived as natural and not at all fearing-for-your-life, and point around the corner to your left.

"Just around there and in the back. Men's is on the right— you can't miss it."

The silence that follows your words seems to be deafening, the pounding of your heart becoming near-dizzying until the stranger finally lowers his head and rounds the corner in slow, almost middling steps. You don't move even after you can't see him anymore, even after hearing the familiar four beeps of buttons being pressed and the lock sliding out of the way. Only after hearing the door shut behind him do you finally breathe again— the stress of the situation making it come out more like a strained gasp.

You take one step back, then two— your hips colliding with the workspace behind you, and then you've slumped down to the floor, defeated. Victorious. The distinction matters very little right now.

…You really, really should have locked the door when you had the chance.

But, you had been distracted— the cafe was entirely empty ten minutes before the arrival of the- the goddamn Dell'arte footsoldier. You had thought you might be able to do some of the closing chores early. Morning shift had left a mess behind, as usual, and you had already flipped the chairs onto the tabletops, and started the dishwasher in the back, and—

—and had completely forgotten to get the lock while cleaning the espresso machine. Idiot, you think. You overlook one small thing and look where it gets you. Alone after dark with a fucking criminal. Idiot.

You take a breath, and then another— and then for good measure, you slap your face with both hands— the stinging, tingling feeling bringing some small semblance of clarity with it. You need to snap out of it. You need to hope, from the depths of your heart, that all that creepy, freakishly tall stranger needed was a short trip to the restroom, and that he'll be gone, and you'll be able to go home and pay Carol for babysitting again and put Milo to bed—

You just have to survive this. You just have to get home to Milo. One more breath, and then you pull yourself to your feet, wiping your hands on your apron before reaching for a small to-go cup. You did pay for the drink, after all. Whether he takes it or not isn't important. You just have to show the right amount of deference to get this guy out of here. You've never been shaken down for protection money before, but you have to imagine the level of stress is something similar to this. Maybe.

Maybe.

You skim your fingers over the teabags behind the counter, contemplating. What to serve a possibly very dangerous mobster at an ungodly hour in the night, you wonder? No answer materializes itself for you, so you end up choosing a blend you like, just in case the stranger refuses and you can reap the rewards of your three dollars in tips. Though, it seems significantly more likely that if the masked stranger did refuse, it would end quite simply in your death.

With a quiet, forlorn sigh, you tear open the teabag's packaging to pull it out and drop it inside the disposable cup. The good thing about this rather painful purchase is that you won't have to descale the espresso machine again afterwards— the hot water spout does its job beautifully, and in minutes, you have a cup of tea (hopefully) presentable enough for the mobster lurking in the cafe.

Emphasis on lurking— just after squeezing on a plastic lid to the to-go cup, you turn and nearly jump out of your skin when your eyes land on the pale, silent masked man— he's just standing there. There— right where he was in front of the counter when he first passed you that note. It's a miracle you don't scream, though the urge was certainly strong. How the hell did he move so silently? And how long has he been standing there?? The questions are never voiced, though you refuse to lose your voice a third time for the night. This man is looking at you quite expectantly, and you need him out of here!

Fixing a tired smile upon your face, you offer the cup to the mobster with both hands— please leave, please leave, please leave! His stare is unbearable— focused, despite being indiscernable from the blank gaze of the void. Something about the eerie fixation of a sightless gaze, the inability to determine if he's even got eyes behind the dark depths of the eyeholes of his mask— it's all too much. And still, you persist.

The man tilts his head slightly, the same uncertain way he did before, and you have half a mind to just take his hands in yours and wrap them around the cup yourself, but you don't. Instead, mustering up the patience of a saint, you prolong your smile and slip right back into customer-service mode.

"Here, on the house. It's cold out there, and you should never leave a cafe empty-handed!"

You hope, from the bottom of your heart, that your words elicit the right response. Not too syrupy, or it will come off artificial. Not too chipper, not too condescending— just enough to get him out of here. To leave. Please leave, you think— you pray, you hope.

You try your best not to flinch when the man reaches for the cup in your grasp, taking it in both his hands— his fingertips brushing against yours just briefly before it's out of your hands entirely. It's hard to tell if the warmth was due to the heat of the cup or his hands or both. but you don't care to dwell on that feeling. You're watching him as he leaves— without so much as a word of thanks, for the last of your tip money, or a word of apology, for tracking in rainwater, or the ordeal he just put you through mentally. But no— the silent intruder is finally gone, his absence punctuated by the joyous chime of the doorbell once more.

With a heavy sigh, you rest your elbows on the counter, and then your head in your hands. Even double shifts don't usually take this much out of you— but a brush with the Dell'arte family? You might as well have aged five years in five minutes. You're so beyond exhausted, but close-up cleaning won't do itself.

You're about to prop yourself up again, about to wet another rag and get to the last menial tasks of the night, but your eye catches on something instead. The tip jar, beside the register on the counter— you're almost— no, you're certain it was emptied and split earlier today before the owner left to let you handle closing. You're certain, and yet…

…Who slipped in two ten-dollar bills when you weren't looking?

…

Tonight, a pale-masked Pierrot is aimless, untethered, and entirely alone. Tonight, a pale-masked Pierrot is giddy, delirious, and entirely head-over-heels. Jester really needs to stop sending him places all on his lonesome— some supervision might have prevented the disaster to come.

Dies of cringe. Okayyy thank you for reading guys!! It means the world to me I'm going to go sleep for 14 hours now,, might post this to Ao3 if you guys like it :))

[scribblesinthevoid]

Reblogging this to say that I posted this work to Ao3!! After some deliberation, I realized that the story I want to tell is much bigger than a handful of chapters, so this is now an ongoing work that you can find titled The Enforcer's Usual, and I will be posting new chapters here AND on my Ao3 account as I write them. Thank you guys for all your support thus far!! The title is a link that will take you there directly hehehehhe

[scribblesinthevoid]

TFC Mafia AU - Pierrot, Ch. 1

Hi. After some agonizing, I made a tentative Chapter 1 for Pierrot's route in the Mafia AU. Outlining is in work for the others' initial writings, but I have more planned than just this one chapter. I finally figured out how Pierrot and his MC will meet in this AU!! Please tell me if you guys like this because I've been writing and rewriting and rewriting to no end!!

Can be found on Ao3 here: The Enforcer’s Usual | Next Chapter ->

Pierrot's route is AFAB!Reader

2.9k words | Trigger warnings for mentions of violence and death

This blog is +18. Minors DNI

It's raining in the city tonight.

No, calling it rain alone is an understatement. Every landmark between soaked cement and cold, reflective sheets of glass have all been swallowed up by a downpour damn near torrential. Lamposts have become lonely lighthouses in between miasmas of dreary, bitterly cold fog— guiding the last of the fools who wander through weather as dismal as this to brave the crosswalks and angry honks of hurried drivers and taxis that can't yet clock out for the night.

Everyone on the streets is in a rush to go home. Every employee of each corner store, cafe, supermarket and late night office is eyeing the clock with restless anticipation— the kind only unforgiving, inclement weather brings upon us all. An eagerness to be relieved of the cold, the ache, and the somber loneliness rain instills into the common passerby.

Tonight, however, one tall shadow looms as it wanders, absent of an umbrella, heavy coat drenched and the suit beneath beginning to take a similar beating from the sopping wet garment. This shadow's pace is unhurried, uncaring as others pass, falter, and then cross the street desperately, to spare themselves attention that would never be cast their way to begin with. Tonight, a pale-masked Pierrot is aimless, untethered, and entirely alone.

Well, not alone. His thoughts are rather loud, despite his oath to remain silent 'till his death. Many of them do not make sense— which, in and of itself, does make sense— he's never quite all there after his rampages. No— dealings. He's supposed to call them dealings, as Jester insisted, chiding him with some unbearably twisted gentleness. It can hardly be called a 'deal', what he does. Jester is the one who drafts and brokers deals. Bilheteiro is the one who carries them from place to place. Even damnable, useless Harlequin does his share of negotiations over shared cigarettes and sweetly worded lies.

All Pierrot does is clean up when things go south.

All Pierrot does is threaten, without need for words— his presence alone usually does the trick.

All Pierrot does is break, and maim, and kill.

Simply put, when he arrives, there are no more deals. To call what he does 'dealings' is just Jester's way of attempting to soften an old wound that's already begun to rot at itself.

It's not as though Pierrot feels remorse for what he does— just that the actions he takes no longer fill him with any type of satisfaction. There is no more vicious delight when blood spatters against his mask and wispy white locks. There is no more hunter's glee when he hears the snapping and cracking of bones and cartilage beneath his hands.

His hands, his hands— Pierrot was careless washing his hands at the docks. His job was too simple, entirely unfulfilling, and it made him sloppy. He flexes his hands in his coat pocket, again and again, almost writhing in his discomfort. Pierrot tucked his hands away too soon. Retracted his claws too fast— tugged his leather gloves over them too quickly. There's blood in the webbing of his fingers, tacky and viscous. All his loud thoughts are now only of how terrible this feeling is— skin on blood on leather— and how Jester is going to admonish him when he gets back. It doesn't matter that they all have a dozen spare gloves each, for ripping through them and staining them with blood is all too common— but Jester's inevitably going to be upset that Pierrot forgot himself and got sloppy. Careless. His only purpose is to kill and to do it effectively, and he can't even do that much right.

He has to get these goddamn gloves off his hands. He needs to wash them again— scrub them raw until even the memory of the blood spatter is cleaned from his fingers. The problem is that he needs to keep the gloves on. That's Jester's rule— one of many. Every part stays covered, Pierrot. You know why. Take a spare pair with you. Don't be careless.

…Pierrot needs to wash his hands, now. If only to feel the cold tap water over the freezing rain— if only to feel something besides the empty nothingness gnawing at his insides. His options are limited, his mask obvious as an arbiter of death and disaster— he really doesn't want to duck in and out of storefronts that may not even have a place for him to wipe the blood flaking between his fingers, but he has no choice. The risk must be taken— besides, who could summon the courage to turn away a mask like his? With a single-minded goal, Pierrot enters the first building to his right with the lights still on at this ungodly hour, and steels himself for an unbearable exchange.

…

The door chimes all too brightly with a masked stranger's unceremonious entrance, having to lower his head a small measure to avoid knocking his forehead into the doorframe or losing his hat. Already, his coat is dripping water onto the floor, shoes squelching against gleaming tile. Here stands a porcelain-faced, soaking wet intruder, two minutes past closing time.

…You really should have locked the door when you had the chance.

Unfortunately, you don't seem to pick up on your blunder until you turn on your heel, brows pinched at the disgustingly gleeful sound of the door chime— but you smooth out your smile anyways, hoping to usher this lost customer out quickly for the sake of time—!

"—oh! I'm so sorry, but we're actually…" Your voice trails off, a practiced, delightfully sweet tone dissolving when you finally look up at the intruder. Anything you could have said to this looming stranger dies on your tongue immediately, the minute your eyes land on his face. His mask, rather. The chill of the outside world seems to have followed him in— or perhaps the shiver that crawls up your spine should be properly attributed to some innate, hardwired survival instinct.

A mask. A Mask. A Dell'arte.

You have no time to formulate a proper response, a decent excuse. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he isn't here for collections. Already the stranger approaches the counter, approaches you. What does he approach for? What does he want? Was your last payment not enough? The sound of his leather soles tracking in small puddles of water is very odd— and briefly, your mind wanders off to how annoying it will be to mop the floor once this stranger leaves— but then the masked mobster gets closer, one gloved hand sliding beneath his coat to reach for something, and your mind goes blank. Is he armed? He could be armed— he could kill you right now, right here, with no witnesses to mark your death. But why? This can't be the end— you've always made your payments on time! There should be no reason for the Dell'artes to send someone after you, not now! A plea works its way up your trembling throat— desperate and aching, an appeal to humanity; Please, I have a son at home, don't do this. I'm all he has. A little longer, please—!

The masked stranger's weapon of choice does not, thankfully, turn out to be some horrible design of blade or firearm— but instead, a notepad and singular black pen. The notepad itself is warped and damp around the edges, creased in one corner where it seems to have been stuffed in this man's pocket rather hastily. The pen, on the other hand, has an elegant sheen to its body-- a classy fountain pen. Twice now, you've lost your words entirely. Without so much as a quiet exhale, the speechless stranger places it down on the counter between you and begins to write something down in big, loopy letters.

Restroom?

You look at the notepad as he slides it to you, blinking slowly as if that will make the scribbling handwriting change. It doesn't. You look up, then, at the owner of the notepad, at empty, unblinking eyeholes carved into a face with no expression to denote passive indifference or killing intent.

You swallow, and some saccharine customer service voice possesses you before your good sense can.

"Ah,.. the restrooms are in the back, around the corner, but you need a—" You flinch, a realization of the words you're speaking finally connecting to your rational mind.

You almost told a member of the fucking mafia that he needs to buy something before he can get the code to the restroom.

Dear god.

The stranger tilts his head at you, slow and unblinking like some terrible Galatea with an aura of death— and the action forces you finally return to your better senses. There is an obvious member of the Dell'arte family in your workplace. You need to get him out of here as fast as possible, by any means necessary. You cannot stammer and stumble and treat him like any other customer. If it's access to the restroom he wants, he'll get it.

"…Let me just get you the code, sir. I'll have to print a receipt to get the system to let you in." Anything to get him out of here! Anything to keep him from reaching into his coat again and pulling out something of an actual weapon. With a press of two buttons, the register drawer opens with a pop— making the stranger flinch just slightly, but you hardly notice. You've got three dollars to depart with, after all— three crumpled bills from your share of today's tips— now becoming emergency protective money against the mob. The irony would sicken you, if you weren't so laser-focused on surviving this present encounter.

Ringing the pale-masked mobster up for one small to-go cup of tea, you tear off the receipt as soon as it's printed and circle the still-warm numbers at the bottom for him with a cheap plastic ballpoint, sliding it towards him across the counter in a fashion similar to how he passed his initial note. The man seems to hesitate slightly, before taking the flimsy receipt between two fingers and looking back up at you. Down at you, rather. Jesus, he's tall. You smile, in a way you hope to be perceived as natural and not at all fearing-for-your-life, and point around the corner to your left.

"Just around there and in the back. Men's is on the right— you can't miss it."

The silence that follows your words seems to be deafening, the pounding of your heart becoming near-dizzying until the stranger finally lowers his head and rounds the corner in slow, almost middling steps. You don't move even after you can't see him anymore, even after hearing the familiar four beeps of buttons being pressed and the lock sliding out of the way. Only after hearing the door shut behind him do you finally breathe again— the stress of the situation making it come out more like a strained gasp.

You take one step back, then two— your hips colliding with the workspace behind you, and then you've slumped down to the floor, defeated. Victorious. The distinction matters very little right now.

…You really, really should have locked the door when you had the chance.

But, you had been distracted— the cafe was entirely empty ten minutes before the arrival of the- the goddamn Dell'arte footsoldier. You had thought you might be able to do some of the closing chores early. Morning shift had left a mess behind, as usual, and you had already flipped the chairs onto the tabletops, and started the dishwasher in the back, and—

—and had completely forgotten to get the lock while cleaning the espresso machine. Idiot, you think. You overlook one small thing and look where it gets you. Alone after dark with a fucking criminal. Idiot.

You take a breath, and then another— and then for good measure, you slap your face with both hands— the stinging, tingling feeling bringing some small semblance of clarity with it. You need to snap out of it. You need to hope, from the depths of your heart, that all that creepy, freakishly tall stranger needed was a short trip to the restroom, and that he'll be gone, and you'll be able to go home and pay Carol for babysitting again and put Milo to bed—

You just have to survive this. You just have to get home to Milo. One more breath, and then you pull yourself to your feet, wiping your hands on your apron before reaching for a small to-go cup. You did pay for the drink, after all. Whether he takes it or not isn't important. You just have to show the right amount of deference to get this guy out of here. You've never been shaken down for protection money before, but you have to imagine the level of stress is something similar to this. Maybe.

Maybe.

You skim your fingers over the teabags behind the counter, contemplating. What to serve a possibly very dangerous mobster at an ungodly hour in the night, you wonder? No answer materializes itself for you, so you end up choosing a blend you like, just in case the stranger refuses and you can reap the rewards of your three dollars in tips. Though, it seems significantly more likely that if the masked stranger did refuse, it would end quite simply in your death.

With a quiet, forlorn sigh, you tear open the teabag's packaging to pull it out and drop it inside the disposable cup. The good thing about this rather painful purchase is that you won't have to descale the espresso machine again afterwards— the hot water spout does its job beautifully, and in minutes, you have a cup of tea (hopefully) presentable enough for the mobster lurking in the cafe.

Emphasis on lurking— just after squeezing on a plastic lid to the to-go cup, you turn and nearly jump out of your skin when your eyes land on the pale, silent masked man— he's just standing there. There— right where he was in front of the counter when he first passed you that note. It's a miracle you don't scream, though the urge was certainly strong. How the hell did he move so silently? And how long has he been standing there?? The questions are never voiced, though you refuse to lose your voice a third time for the night. This man is looking at you quite expectantly, and you need him out of here!

Fixing a tired smile upon your face, you offer the cup to the mobster with both hands— please leave, please leave, please leave! His stare is unbearable— focused, despite being indiscernable from the blank gaze of the void. Something about the eerie fixation of a sightless gaze, the inability to determine if he's even got eyes behind the dark depths of the eyeholes of his mask— it's all too much. And still, you persist.

The man tilts his head slightly, the same uncertain way he did before, and you have half a mind to just take his hands in yours and wrap them around the cup yourself, but you don't. Instead, mustering up the patience of a saint, you prolong your smile and slip right back into customer-service mode.

"Here, on the house. It's cold out there, and you should never leave a cafe empty-handed!"

You hope, from the bottom of your heart, that your words elicit the right response. Not too syrupy, or it will come off artificial. Not too chipper, not too condescending— just enough to get him out of here. To leave. Please leave, you think— you pray, you hope.

You try your best not to flinch when the man reaches for the cup in your grasp, taking it in both his hands— his fingertips brushing against yours just briefly before it's out of your hands entirely. It's hard to tell if the warmth was due to the heat of the cup or his hands or both. but you don't care to dwell on that feeling. You're watching him as he leaves— without so much as a word of thanks, for the last of your tip money, or a word of apology, for tracking in rainwater, or the ordeal he just put you through mentally. But no— the silent intruder is finally gone, his absence punctuated by the joyous chime of the doorbell once more.

With a heavy sigh, you rest your elbows on the counter, and then your head in your hands. Even double shifts don't usually take this much out of you— but a brush with the Dell'arte family? You might as well have aged five years in five minutes. You're so beyond exhausted, but close-up cleaning won't do itself.

You're about to prop yourself up again, about to wet another rag and get to the last menial tasks of the night, but your eye catches on something instead. The tip jar, beside the register on the counter— you're almost— no, you're certain it was emptied and split earlier today before the owner left to let you handle closing. You're certain, and yet…

…Who slipped in two ten-dollar bills when you weren't looking?

…

Tonight, a pale-masked Pierrot is aimless, untethered, and entirely alone. Tonight, a pale-masked Pierrot is giddy, delirious, and entirely head-over-heels. Jester really needs to stop sending him places all on his lonesome— some supervision might have prevented the disaster to come.

Dies of cringe. Okayyy thank you for reading guys!! It means the world to me I'm going to go sleep for 14 hours now,, might post this to Ao3 if you guys like it :))

[scribblesinthevoid]

Unsurprisingly, Harlequin has found new ways to piss me off. Struggled with his stupid mask for the Mafia AU for an hour, just to now struggle with his stupid haircut. I hate this man beyond words. Baldlequin jumpscare warning:

I’m going to take a break,, maybe I’ll just kill this WIP and start over later… but at the same time, I spent so much time on this ;;

[scribblesinthevoid]

Beta Pierrot Designs for the Mafia AU

Okay!! I am slowly getting the hang of Clip Studio Paint!! Anyways, to prove my slow updates are productive, here are some preliminary doodles of what Pierrot is going to look like in the mafia AU. Do not be alarmed by his lack of eyelights, a mouth, or horns!! I have a logical explanation for this!!

Essentially, to make all the TFC monsters more eerie but still believable in a setting where they have to interact with humans more, without the disguises of the circus, I have omitted the eyelights for now (they will appear when he's in predator mode!! Just not during normal interactions!), and gotten rid of his mouth only because these masks are more rigid, being made of a finely-sculpted porcelain.

But Scribbles!! The horns!! I hear you!! To make up for the fact I'm breaking canon's arms over here, I've written a stipulation into this AU's lore that the monsters are capable of matching human physiology up to 80% at the cost of needing to eat humans much more frequently than just baseline sustenance. Worry not-- the horns and all of Pierrot's lovely monstrous features will indeed come into play later on as the AU develops. For now, have some snippets of my WIP for Pierrot's route in this AU, below the cut :)

tw: mentions of blood and violence/death. this is a mafia au. you've been warned.

It can hardly be called a 'deal', what he does. Jester is the one who drafts and brokers deals. Bilheteiro is the one who carries them from place to place. Even damnable, useless Harlequin does his share of negotiations over shared cigarettes and sweetly worded lies.

All Pierrot does is clean up when things go south.

All Pierrot does is threaten, without need for words— his presence alone usually does the trick.

All Pierrot does is break, and maim, and kill.

. . .

He has to get these goddamn gloves off his hands. He needs to wash them again— scrub them raw until even the memory of the blood spatter is clean from his digits. The problem is he needs to keep the gloves on. That's Jester's rule— one of many. Every part stays covered, Pierrot. You know why. Take a spare pair with you. Don't be careless.

. . .

The door chimes all too brightly with Pierrot's unceremonious entrance, having to lower his head a small measure to avoid knocking his forehead into the doorframe or losing his hat. Already, his coat is dripping water onto the floor, shoes squelching against gleaming tile. Here stands a porcelain-faced, soaking wet intruder, two minutes past closing time. You really should have locked the door when you had the chance.

[scribblesinthevoid]

Projecting my period cramps onto Harlequin while I struggle through learning CSP mobile

the pain is debilitating but i took two Advil so I’ll be okay until tomorrow. Top left doodle is me crying into my lobster heating pad (menstruation crustacean.) Anyways this green fuck can take my suffering while I work on beta designs for the mafia au.

The transition from procreate to CSP is rough… but I refuse to go down without a fight.

[scribblesinthevoid]

no more amnesia arcs ever please. specifically in romance because I’m so TIRED. please I can’t do this anymore. I can’t handle another ‘ohh noooo the love of my life doesn’t recognize me anymore and is cold and meannnn’ PLEASE LET ME OUT OF THIS HELLSCAPE