#dapperdoc

[srpntlily]

whenever i'm alone with you / you make me feel like i am whole again

happy valentine's day! 🫶💏

[pxppet]

And what if I draw t4t egos? Who among you could stop me?

[sugarrspice]

Has JJ ever tried to escape PM!Jackie?

"There's nothing keeping you here," Henrik says, one night.

Jameson doesn't stiffen; knows that Henrik hadn't been asleep by the way he can't help but keep tapping out old rhythms on Marvin's back. Marvin himself is out cold- a rare, rare sight, to see him so vulnerable. Jameson knows there's not many people he'd trust with his back, and the number keeps dwindling, day by day.

His chest twists at that, a sharp little pang, and he instead shifts to tug his arms free from where they'd been wrapped around Henrik.

"Too late to be thinking," he signs, gently, and Henrik only hums, softly. In the dim glow of Marvin's witchlight- none of them much like the dark, anymore- he looks tired as he ever does. There's bags underneath his eyes that Jameson knows weren't always so dark, his eyes weren't always so dull.

Jameson has lived a long, long time. Longer than most of them suspect, though he knows Marvin studies him when he thinks he isn't watching, as if he can pick apart the magic that curls in his chest and hums in his blood with his eyes alone.

He has lived long enough to watch them think they've mastered the skies, the seas, in all of their infinite wit and hubris, to pierce the skies and then the universe beyond it. Has lived long enough to watch them devise new ways to tear each other apart, to kill and maim and suffer.

There are so, so many things to hate, now. How a child will starve in a well-lit street, how an aged man will watch the world decide that his life is not nearly so important as their next coffee date. He keeps each tally close to his heart, waiting- waiting, as he always does.

He has learnt to hate just as ardently the exhaustion that Henrik never seems to put down, that Marvin now finds his release in blood and frost, no use for any of the frivolity that he used to delight in showering them with.

Henrik tells him, quietly, there's nothing keeping you here, and Jameson wonders at how astute and how oblivious a man can be at his own importance as an anchor.

"You could do it," Henrik presses, quietly. "Turn back the clock on these strings; disappear into the city to live a life you should've had."

Jameson knows he could, too. It's child's play, to gently coax Marvin's body into overtime to heal those burns as if they were years old. Well, not child's play, but he'd do it again, and again, just as he'd freeze the night to grant them a few hours of respite.

Jackie's strings are tight, but Jameson is very, very good at disappearing when he doesn't want to be found. Even Anti never fully had his heart.

"Not without you," he decides, upon, finally. He's tired of having to leave behind the things- the people he loves. Henrik watches him; for all he snaps and grumbles his way through anything even remotely sentimental, he sees rather more than they ever give him credit for.

Henrik doesn't ask why he can't take them with. Jameson is rather selfishly glad he doesn't.

(He has lived for a very long time. It rankles, to admit that there are still things he can't peel back the layers from, that he hasn't learnt to help anyone but himself.)

Henrik tugs Jameson close. Jameson- Jameson is used to feeling very, very small. The sea is vast, and the stars are infinite in their grandeur. A human speck is hardly a blink for a mountain's single breath.

Henrik kisses him gently on the top of the head, and Jameson allows himself to feel just that bit grander, curling into Henrik's side.

"Rest," he signs, slowly, and Henrik hums again, resting his head atop Jameson's.

The night is quiet for a few hours longer.

That, he can give them, at least.

[florenceisfalling]

@cest-mellow my computers bein a bitch and i lost your ask one way or another but here u go :3

its a bit messy sorry :”)

art ref by @/aniforce_bot on twitter!

I JUST REALIZED I MIXED UP THE LAYERS ON JJS HAIR

[hiddenspaceplant]

can you write robbie getting stuck in a tree whilt the other egos try to get him down?

Henrik Von Schneeplestein had many regrets in his life. His work had dragged him away from his children, he had never saved enough people, and his own health plagued him. However, his worst regret was not teaching Robbie to not climb trees

”Robbie! My boy, I do promise zhat it is safe,so come down!” Each time a creak echoed from the tree, he expected to see a charcoal body bounce down and land beside him motionless. Jamie had wandered out, in time for one of his hundreds of daily tea breaks. Once Jameson stepped into the sunlight, a low rumble emitted from the tree. “Daadd…cookies?” whimpered the zombie boy, peaking a glazed eye through the foliage. He rustled through the leaves, snagging his stitches on a cluster of branches, ripping off the lower half of his left arm. It landed with a thump at Henriks feet, and the dapper man abandoned his tea and strolled towards the scene. Both were nonchalant with the severed limb lying on the ground. Bare feet hung out of the lowest bows.

”Is he alright?” questioned Jamie, picking up his sons arm and tucking it under his own. Tutting, the doctor rolled his eyes and threw off his lab coat. Cautiously, he dug his heels into the bark and wrapped his arms around the trunk to try and shimmy up. Robbie had skittered higher up as a tiny rain of staples landed on the ground.

”Robbie, please come down! I can’t climb up zhat high!” he groaned, feeling the muscles in his back beginning to ache. All his joints began popping while he hung a few feet away from Robbies legs. Just a little further and his son would be safe. His fingertips just managed to brush Robbies foot before his foot, and the rest of his body was lifted out in a crimson blur.

”Jackieboyman saves the day again! You alright little Furby?” the zombie giggled, slowly signing the letters for yes. Boots landed with a soft thump as Jameson held out Robbies arm.

”Need a hand?” japed the dapper man as Henrik scoured.

“You could’ve come much sooner you know?” the hero chuckled as he flew up to the doctors eye line, flexing his arms. Pens were thrown at Jackie as the doctor clicked his neck.

”Very amusing, now get me out of zhis tree. I’m too old for this shite.”

[sugarrspice]

What is day to day like as PM!Jackie’s puppet?

Jameson opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling with eyes too sharp despite the early hour.

He's not sure why he's awake. It truly is despicably early; the sun hasn't even whispered across the horizon, and to his side, his beloveds are quiet.

Marvin lies, curled up beside him, back to him. With anybody else, this may have been an insult; with Marvin, Jameson takes this honor quite seriously.

To his other side-

Ah. That'd be why.

Henrik's side of the bed has since gone cold. With a silent sigh, Jameson pulls himself away from Marvin, only the slightest bit regretful. They'll be back, hopefully.

His wrists ache in the cold as he pads out, bare feet quiet against the uncarpeted wood floors. Jackie's visits have been getting-- less frequent, perhaps, but remain memorable all the same.

Henrik isn't in the living room, nor in his study. Jameson pauses, tests the layer of memories that sits underneath the skin of every building, of everything that breathes and several more things that don't.

Nothing has been disturbed. It remains, rich as good soil, but not burnt.

Reassured, he continues into the kitchen, a layer of tension sluicing off as he sees the dim light pooling in the doorway.

Henrik's broad frame is silhouetted against the window. Steam faintly curls over his shoulder; tea, then. Jameson wonders if it's a ginger or if it's a chamomile night.

He can't hum, but he whistles under his breath, low and soothing. Henrik's shoulders draw up tightly, but he turns all the same. His hands are white-knuckled around the mug, angry red scrapes standing out against the bloodless skin. He'll need to rewrap those wounds.

"You should be in bed," Henrik says, voice low. His accent is thicker, now, Jameson notes. A chamomile night, then.

"You left," he signs back, keeping his movements slow and purposeful. He knows Henrik won't ever fear them, trusts them to not raise a hand against him as Anti has, as Jackie does, but Jameson likes keeping them feeling safe. It's a familiar song and dance. One of them slips away in the night; the others follow behind to keep them warm. One of them burns, the others burn with them, try to put them out. "Nightmares?"

Henrik's silence is telling enough. His eyes are sliding away like he wants to turn away, but doesn't.

Jameson whistles again, softer, more sympathetic, and pads closer. Henrik doesn't pull away; only nestles his head over the other's shoulder, something loosening in his back. A dance as worn as they are.

"Come to bed," Jameson signs, again, before wrapping an arm around the other. Come to bed, the day is almost here, and all of its monsters with it, he knows Henrik hears.

Henrik huffs out a soft breath, and brushes a kiss to his temple. Stubble scratches at Jameson's cheeks; he doesn't comment on it, pine and soap flooding his senses.

"In a bit," Henrik says, quietly. Jameson would hum if he could; only nods, instead. He knows Henrik likes the early morning as much as Marvin likes the late nights, the rare times where they can pretend that they aren't pretending that everything's just as it is, forcing themselves along the rusting tracks of normalcy with Jackie's presence burning into their backs.

The least they can do for one another is give them that.

[pxppet]

Jackie is the only one with a normal sleep schedule, so Henrik and JJ use him as a boyfriend pillow quite often!

[pxppet]

tw emotophobia, flashback

·················

They had met once before they “met”.

Anti and Jameson were co-conscious, drunk as a dog on cheap beer in a random pub in Berlin. Snot and bile pool up in their nose as they throw up over a disgusting toilet that seems to not have been cleaned since it opened; “Selbstgebrautem für dich! Seit 1974!” toted a sign by the door. Jameson’s eyes weep from the sting as vomit ejects from his mouth and nose, and he gives a hiccupping sob.

Damn you, Anti, why did we have to drink tonight?

Because I’m bored as fuck! Your fault your body got sick, the soul sharing his brain moans.

Jameson heaves as another wave of nausea hits him. Anti has slunk as far back into their shared consciousness as he can to avoid the disgusting smells and sights.

The bathroom door opens.

Anti is no longer so far back.

There’s a pause as Jameson pants and gags. “Geht’s dir gut?” calls a deep, pleasantly grating voice, good natured and just as drunk as their shared body is. Jameson is unable to call out, and his raw lips hurt too much to whistle, so he clucks softly, three times.

“Wirst du darauf antworten? Haha!” The man walks closer to the bathroom stall they are locked in. Anti takes control as fully as he can, stands on shaking legs, and bangs roughly on the door. The man lets out a gasp and stumbles back a few steps.

“Ich bin Arzt. Geht’s dir gut?” The stranger’s voice is suddenly serious, professional, as though completely sobered by a potential patient.

“Ffff-f… fuck off,” Anti manages through their body’s nearly nonfunctional vocal cords.

“Englisch? Kiene Deutsch? Ok, sir, are you alright? You were throwing up very hard,” the man’s voice is heavily accented, warm despite it’s seriousness. Lovely, musical, Jameson thinks dizzily. Usually his analysis of stranger’s voices is much more intricate, but cheap beer hits fast and strong, and he is drunker than their body has ever been thanks to Anti. Jameson clucks their tongue again, letting out a wheezing laugh as he leans heavily against the stall door.

“Sir, are you injured? Can you speak?”

Anti puffs up their chest, and unlocks the door in fury, prepared to maim whatever freakshow ‘Arzt’ is daring to interact with his body, his baby, his toy-

But the face on the other side shocks all three of them. They look exactly the same. Same scar over their eye, same green dyed hair, same baby blue eyes, same crooked teeth in a mouth held agape in shock.

“Was. Zum. Teufel.” The double is slowly backing away but it hardly matters as Anti takes over fully and crashes past him, nearly knocking over tables and patrons as he bursts through the pub and out the door, down the sidewalk, fast, fast as he can, get far far away from the Creator’s boys, get as far away as you can-

Their feet catch and they trip to the concrete of an alleyway as Jameson tries to stop them.

What was that? Who was that? Jameson interrogates.

Nobody. Creep, freak, piece of shit, nobody that matters to you, understood? You shut up, you shut up and sit there like a good boy, Carver. There is fear in Anti’s mind, terror in his thoughts. Jameson knows it and feels just as much fear. Why did they look the same? What could that man have done to Anti to make him so afraid? Shut your mouth and let me take us home, Anti’s consciousness responds. There is no hiding his thoughts from his companion.

In their bed an hour later, having drunk nearly all the instant coffee in the house and taken a cold shower, Anti is ruminating. Safe, safe, safe, I’m safe, got my own body, got my own pet, safe, safe, in control, safe, I own this body, mine, safe…

Jameson cups their hands in front of their chest, throat stinging from bile and acidic coffee. Anti cannot hide his thoughts from Jameson either. And Anti is in more fear than he has ever allowed Jameson to see, more fear than even the first day he stole him, than those long months on the run from the Creator.

Jameson hugs their quivering body, providing any comfort to his partner that he can. I’ll never let them get you, he promises.

···

Years have passed now though, and Jameson hugs someone else in a softer, warmer bed as he recalls the faint memories. Henrik snores beside him, a bit older a bit more scarred up, hair not having been green in years. Jameson blinks up at his peaceful face with wettened eyes. He buries his face into Henrik’s chest as tears spill over.

“I’ll never let him get you,” he signs into Henrik’s jammies, swearing, promising, to himself and his sleeping lover alike.