SweetCyanide

SUPER COOL VAL DRAWINGS its me cy and i like to draw and i really love everyone's art here 😌🙏 commissions: soon?! maybe, yes! more drawings?: hell yeah DOWN BELOW ! ! ! CANDIE & SUNNY SCARBOROUGH: two of the most frequently drawn characters in my files. there's something relaxing abt drawing these two ARES SHEZMU & TOMMY HUDSON: they barely interact, but they're highschool bffsies 4effsies (underage chucklefucks coming through) URSA MADEUM CHARACTERS: a pure golden boi and a filthy pirate man

have not watched endgame : ^ )

does this mean i get an office and nurses 👀

wait garlic breads are ovals and pizzas are saucers so it MUST be pizza RIGHT

that is a pure cheese pizza you uncultured swine

Ramsey got into the passenger's seat with a big heavy sigh. The car started rolling the moment they went in, and he rolled down his tinted window just a little. He didn't want the car to smell, so he flipped off the AC. "Are you carrying?" The question seemed to confuse him. Ramsey adjusted his seat with a crank, relaxing into the cushion before actually saying anything. "No, Emile," he said, tapping the side of his spectacles to scan for the previously marked targets, "I don't even know what that means." Their driver eventually brought them to the parking exit; the type where you had to roll down your window and put your coins in. Ramsey pulled out a cigarette just as Emile rummaged for some coins - casually igniting his tobacco stick by huffing a tiny gust of fire unto it. Half the stick caught fire for a brief moment before sinking into orange-hot embers, then fading to heated grey ash. When he puffed a smoke, half of his cigarette was gone, much to his annoyance. Many of his coworkers thought that he looked like a fire-breathing lizard doing that. They pulled out of the driveway. Emile, their trusty driver, began to bring them to the main road. Ramsey watched the cityscape roll by, decorated by the depression that Last Chance always gave off. The people here were miserable, and it reminded him of himself many years ago. He scoffed at them, then to himself, begrudgingly puffing another lazy drift of smoke. Ramsey instead looked somewhere else, eyes drawn to the rear view mirror where the doctor was anxiously fidgeting in the back seat. "You're not looking so fresh, doc," he said, taking yet another puff. It was a miracle how he hadn't already died - from this - smoking until his lungs were charred, black and burning. But then again, he did breathe fire. How's a little smoke gonna hurt him? He took a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Hart without looking at her, not directly, at least. "Don't worry. We'll get you to the news agency safe and sound." He pointed to the soldier then to himself. "Private Gareau and Doctor Robicheaux at your ser-?" A red target bobbed up behind Hart in the rear view mirror. Fuck. "Ah, fuck," Ramsey muttered. A police car behind them was hot in their tracks. It signaled them to pull over. "Emile," he said to the sniper, tapping his shoulder with a knuckle and nodding to the mirror between them. Hart started to grow pale. "We pulling over?" Ramsey asked. It was a rhetorical question. He grew steadily anxious as Emile plastered on a devious look on his face. Oh god. Oh fuck.

Raccoon had actually fainted during the crash. His body laid face-first on the wooden floor. And, without warning, bolted awake. "GARGHLOOKOUT-!" He sat there, momentarily wide-eyed, his adrenaline continuing from where it left off. The surging panic, the beat of his quickening heart pulse—had already died. There was no turbulence, nor was there any storm. The ship wasn't even moving at all. Raccoon had been absolutely dumbfounded, flashes of white light still burned into his eyes. What just happened? A few minutes ago, he was wrestling with gravity. But now. . . no. . . is he-? Raccoon grabbed his body; his waist, his chest, his face, his beautiful face-! He's alive! But what about. . .? He squinted, swiveling his head around—left, right, up, down—scanning for a familiar glint that had almost immediately caught his eye. He blindly scrambled to his knees, snatching his glasses off the floor. He breathed into the lenses and wiped them squeaky clean, placing it on his face and blinking into a world where he could actually see. Raccoon pushed himself up, his legs rickety like a newborn baby deer, still caught in the middle of a rocking ship bullied by a storm. He scanned for his crew mates next, all of whom, he was not able to find. I see, Raccoon thought to himself, in quite a literal and metaphorical sense. He placed his hands together, preparing a prayer so that their souls may be peacefully guided to the afterlife. Bless their hearts and souls, O Divine One, so that they may find peace after death. They are good people—though I've known only three of them for about . . . what, a day? My judgement is not very clear, at the moment, but, er, never mind, they're right there. "Hey! Hey guys!" Raccoon ran up to his formerly deceased companions and slipped. He forgot that he had a slight weakness in his legs, but eventually, he got right back up. The last of their companions caught up to them, with a deep crimson scrape on his right cheek. it jutted a splinter, trickling with thin lines of blood. He deeply questioned the citadel that towered before him, but it was too late for that. Raccoon joined the party right behind the sisters from earlier. He hadn't actually gotten a chance to give off a better first impression awhile ago (most probably because of the storm) so he quietly accepted the death of his ego. One of their companions—he hadn't actually gotten his name—began talking about how turning off the fortress was coherently a horrible idea. You can turn a fortress on? A few moments passed. Raccoon decided to do the one thing he usually did. "Welp." He sat down, his legs in a criss-cross position. "Don't mind me." He began to 'totally space out, dude'. Closing his eyes, Raccoon tapped into his sixth sense; ebony tattoos inked across his body illuminated deeply with blinding light, accompanied by the faintest sound of song. Most of what his companions said were muted out in the middle of his transcendent state, attracting spirits to linger on his physical and ethereal body. For about a minute, Raccoon had said nothing, until his eyes opened, briefly white and glowing, before gently fading into a pair of pupils. The light vanished as he bolted up, his free hand digging into his pocket. He placed his hand on the pilot's shoulder—unnaturally friendly. Tiny spirits crept up on some of the party. "Cool, cool." Raccoon mumbled, listening to a little spirit on his shoulder. "There's something at the bottom of the citadel," he said, pulling out an extra pipe; less ornamental and more wooden. He ignited it. "I don't know what it is, but it feels like something really big." Raccoon puffed a lazy cloud that drifted faintly familiar shapes, as if faces had appeared on the clouds he smoked. "Also, there's a potted plant somewhere. It's being really taken care of, i think." His eyes studied the stairs. Then he studied the faces of the people here with him; Argi, Ravenbush and her sister, the pilot, and a bleeding man. A what- "WOAH—!" He didn't do well with blood. But then again, he didn't notice he was also bleeding. "That doesn't—uh, ughh," he sucked in some air, "that looks bad. You want some, uh, ointment on that?"

Time seemed relatively funny when you've spent no sleep on the day before today. Tommy felt so lethargic that every step forward shook her brain. How long have they been walking? Hours? Days? Why did she arrive to an interview seven hours early? The sewer was cold but she found herself sweating. Her skin was tingling and her breath was heating. Tommy glanced down at her bandage-ridden hand ridden with scrapes and cuts, anxiously wondering if a flesh-eating virus really was going to give her a chainsaw hand. Her shoes—soggy, her socks—sponged up with shitwater, her feet—aching, but continuously they dragged themselves forward in a hellish loop. Lift, step, squish, and repeat. Occasionally, her feet would get tangled in something in the water, like plastic six-can rings, or something obscene; like a thong. Then, there was the smell. Initially, Tommy had to go through the trouble of pinching her nose the entire time. Now, she painfully breathed it in like how some people would after being forced to sniff a fart for, perhaps, an entire afternoon. A bit of bile started to make its way up her throat, possibly due to the instantaneous violation of her five senses. “Damn, that was stupid.” Ashton's voice snapped her back to reality. Right. We're on a mission. Tommy shook her head, but regretted it soon after, a brief wave of vertigo spiraling round and around her . . . "I didn’t think to mark our path, to keep us from getting lost.” "Wh—?" Tommy softly exclaimed, coming back to her senses. She turned back, slowly gasping in a late reaction. " . . . Oh." She said. "Fuck." Both of them stood there, feeling a bit ridiculous. "Fuck it." Ashton said, now taking the time to mark their path. He started to draw glyphs, a fairly common use of magic, but it was still something Tommy was in awe of. “A lesson for future us, make sure you know how to get out.” "I, yeah," Tommy said, "I kinda remember the graffiti on the walls, though. The one back had like, dicks, or something." Tommy squinted. Funny she remembered that and not the claw mark. It seemed that she really was a teenager. Ashton turned back to her. “Ugh, could you imagine being trapped down here for a few days?” Tommy smiled, suddenly excited with his change of attitude. "I know! I'd probably go nuts or something - chewing on rats and sleeping submerged in sewer water. Ugh. The people trapped down here must be doing really bad right now. We should really get them out of here as soon as-." Something bumped into the back of her foot. Tommy nearly screamed—but yelled—at the fluffy denizen paddling around in the water. A rat struggled to stay afloat; it didn't seem to want to pass by. Instead, it waited for the two humans to react. Tommy glanced at Ashton, a bit confusedly, then crouched down and reluctantly brought her hand down. The rat climbed up on her fingers, shook it's fur, then sat in the center of her palm. She was so used to killing these kinds of things that Tommy felt incredibly awkward. Rats were an enemy to the corn. "Um." The corn former stared at the rat in her hand. She leaned in closer to Ashton. "Can rats talk? Other than the Rat King?" A horrifyingly hollow growl echoed throughout the tunnel. Guttural and large. It is loud enough for all three of them to hear. At the sound of it, the rat is visibly distressed. On the top of the walls, several others of it's kind begin scurrying in a panicked frenzy.

Even if she said she were fine, Pluto still had plenty of room to worry. Bumping into him was the equivalent of hitting your nose into a brick wall. Pluto and the enchanting stranger promptly exchanged apologies as he failed to offer to pick up her mask. He had one good look at her face before it was masked again. Then she took off her mask. She started to stare at him as if he had something ungracious on his face. On his mask. Pluto suddenly felt conscious. Was it the design? Is the half-frown, half-smile too much? He found himself imitating her, tilting his head rather confusedly. She was thinking about something. So he was he. If he were more of a human, the face of this particular stranger would have reduced his cheeks into a flaming spectacle. Maybe the way her dress hugged her body, too. Fortunately, Pluto was unlike any other man. He was missing the one thing all men had. Manhood. Therefore, he had no ability or reason to lust. Though he admired her beauty—now that this woman had pushed her face within an inch of his—was this really necessary? He lowered his gilded mask, stopping below his eyes where he stared into her eyes. Purple. Rare eyes. But so were his; a single glint of metallic silver, a rare eye. “I . . . um . . . I was chasing after a misery fairy.” Pluto glanced to where she pointed. Someone was crying. But—a misery fairy? He's never heard of that before. "I've never heard of that before," Pluto said, absentmindedly. He also froze in place. He was in the presence of a courtesan! He hesitated to offer her a flower, a Hildebrand tradition, but now that they've entered conversation . . . "It’s just over there, I was hoping to stop it from causing any more damage . . ." Though conflicted over to give or not to give the flower hidden somewhere on his body (obviously prepared in advance for an occasion such as this), Pluto looked, only now noticing the small number of men and women in the garden who were bawling their eyes into whatever they could grab a hold of; the ground, the garden statues, a nearby pillar or, each other. Or they sobbed into their palms. However they did it, they were a mess nonetheless. So, a misery fairy brings misery. Simple enough. He brought up his hand, leathered with a black glove, and pressed two fingers onto the temples of his head. He moulded it, his mask; gold folded and melded as it obeyed his mental command, taking shape into a rather more casual version of his previous design. Still gilded and complex, but now shortened above his nose. Now he didn't have to hold it. His chin and lips were exposed. "If you don’t mind my asking—“ Pluto turned to her; half his body bathed in flickering fire. It reflected against him. “But—ah, well never mind on that one. Mind helping me catch that miserable fairy?” Pluto is a rather altruistic servant—or improperly—an altruistic slave. He placed a hand to his breast and bowed at the shoulders. "Of course, Lady Carthrage." He'd made a mistake by addressing her as miss before. "It could be dangerous," he explained, walking forward as he loosened his gloves, "so I will shield you." @DarkHorse @Aleksei

pluto had come to the masquerade by himself. Not a part of an entourage nor did he follow behind the Hildebrand family, but as an independent party, Pluto had come to the masquerade. It was an unusual choice to make for himself, a servant attending a party without their master, but it was not at all unusual if provided context, unless his reason to attend was far more unusual. He had left Ravenel Manor for one thing and one thing only: to run away. And not running away from his duties, pah, he would never do that, who would ever—? No. He ran not from his duties but from a voice. It started ever since that day, ever since he had seen Crowley in those woods. Only he could hear it and only he could feel it. Every night and every waking hour, something from the deep bowels of the earth would come for him—ripping apart the ground with it's iron claws to open a ravine beneath him—to bear it's fangs and whisper to him in a horrifyingly baritone voice. Guttural. Colossal. If he were to describe it, it was almost as if he had listened to . . . a dragon. Men and women clapped to a wondrous rhythm; they sang at the top of their voices. Fingers laden with black gloves trembled; shaking the stem of his mask in his hand. His consciousness drifted back towards the party, to the voices of drunken laughter and lively music. To the sun-kissed ballroom radiating with radiance. Yes, of course, Pluto thought to himself, almost embarrassedly, The masquerade. Though a servant through thick and thin, he was a servant and a swordsman who held a sense of propriety. He was a seneschal, a servant who ordered other servants, so he must hold himself with a higher solemn manner compared to cookmaids and cleaning butlers. He was a swordsman of the Orchid, so he must stand tall with elegance and militarist pride. His attire was ornate, though that may be credited to the jacket on his shoulders. His mask was golden, something he had made for himself. It was a complex gilded design; a half frown and half smile that masked his entire face. Pluto hid the crest of Hildebrand in his pocket, in fear it would ignite gossip and curiosity. Beneath his mask, his eyes paced back and forth until he decided to revel in his anonymity. Nobody knew, so nobody will ask! He found himself escaping from the crowd, gliding across the dancefloor with utmost ease, entering the next room to explore. He had seen men and women, men and men, women and women partaking in one another with romantic passion; Pluto felt a timid embarrassment upon noticing their bold display of public affection, so he strayed away into the quieter regions of the party. The garden. The place he truly enjoys the most. The warm colors of the masquerade reflected on his porcelain body as he paced down stairs lit by torch and candlelight. Strangely, he found himself drawn to it. The fire. They were like tiny dancers. Hypnotizing and beautiful. Urging him to look closer, tempting him to grasp it like a moth to a flame. In that moment, he reached to it. He reached the last step, but now he inched close to the fire within his reach. It called to him. It beckoned him. It spoke to him. Boy. "Oh!" Pluto exclaimed. He had not noticed the woman that found herself slammed against him. Or was it him that slammed into her? He lowered his mask and anxiously assumed a posture of apology. "I'm sorry, my la—I mean, miss," he said, with an air of boyish innocence one would expect after accidentally hurting a woman, "are you quite alright?" Pluto did not see her, but neither did he see the men and women sobbing into their sleeves. @DarkHorse

It is often believed that a black cat is an omen of bad luck. Many things among black cats were omens of bad luck. But the black cat... Crossing paths with one brought about death—brought about misfortune; a black cat mask was absolutely perfect for a man considered to be an omen himself. He brought about a fate worse than any black cat, and a tidal wave of fortune more fortunate than Lady Luck herself. A dirty pirate. A captain of a ship you would never want to see on the Madeum seas. His motley crew bathed in fortune and drowned in misfortune. Santana the Longtail, the very same one whose name sent superstitious sailors spiraling into horror, had absolutely loved parties. The king is a good king—he’ll give him that—freshly seated on the throne and what is the first thing he does as king? Throw a masquerade for him and his lucky crew to trash. A good king indeed! They had arrived at another entrance, one that led directly to the ballroom. Or was it the exit? "A-yayay," he said, stopping dead in his tracks to look at his hideously-dressed boatswain. He picked at his mask—nay—his potato sack with a finger. "What is that?" "What’s what?" Bombo said, his voice muffled by the sack. The holes in it were too small for him to actually see anything. Bombo was half-human, often compared to a kobold, though he seemed more like a mangy imp than a man with dwarfism. "I got something on me face?" "Nay," Barcelo said, a beautiful, feminine face with luxurious ginger long hair, big green eyes and the body of a rough man and the voice of a drunk poet. He was also the first mate. "You've gotten something all over your head." It honestly seemed as if God had lopped off the head of a pretty woman and stuck it onto a body of a slender, chiseled man. Santana fixed his feathered hat. One can tell the disappointment in his face, even with a black wooden mask. He flicked Bombo's bottle nose for coming to a masquerade in a potato sack. "Ogh!" Bombo held his nose. "Ogh-" "No matter," he said, directing his attention towards the entrance to the brightly-lit ballroom, "I'll just tie you to the buffet table so you get to guard all the food, and I get to chase the women without you scaring them away." "And me?" Barcelo asked. "You get to chase the men." He laughed. "Aye, cap'n." Santana had brought these two and these two only; they were the most sensible out of any of his crew members, who were all the least sensible, either by being too stupid or being too ugly to bring along. Incidentally, they were also two of the lucky four who had never once died aboard the Cat's Eye. Santana placed his hands on the door, turned his head to the side, and grinned a wicked grin underneath that devilish mask of his. "Remember, lads!" He exclaimed, opening the door to the masquerade. "At your best behavior." They finally entered the room. His men scattered: one left to hog all the food, and the other, flirted with the men fooled by his beauty It was fairly easy to spot Captain Santana—nay—Mr. Smith; with a jolly gait, he left behind him a trail of broken glass and clumsy folk tripping on their skirts and feet. Many dismiss the idea of omens or good fortune, but in the face of a man such as Santana Bacardi, it was quite alright to be a little superstitious.

king milo: throws a party all pirates within the vicinity: ill be attending with the unluckiest luckiest man in the madeum seas and the softest boi in the hildebrand lands. : ^ )

robicheaux, ramsey It was his worst nightmare. Fight or flight frantically pranced wild into his nerves. "Ram, change of plans, they're coming for her. No time for the bus, you've got to get out of there now." He adjusted his spectacles, landing specific targets on specific heads among other heads. "Yeah, I see them." "You need to get across the street. Meet me in the parking garage next to my building, fourth floor." He spoke in a mockingly deadpan voice. "Yes, sir." His tone was code for: "You've gotta shitting me, Emile." The moment when several men in uniform started swimming in the opposite direction of the crowd, Ramsey didn't even have time to think. He looked at Hart, smiled, and swung his arm around her shoulder and held her close to his side. It was a smooth gesture, as if they had known each other like chummy boyfriend and girlfriend. Ramsey, the boyfriend, and Hart, the unfortunate girlfriend. Both of them started walking, and so started the chase. "Roll with it," he casually said, "we're going to take a shortcut." They paced towards the street, something the CDF had suddenly noticed, and the officers changed their course. Ramsey was so focused on getting away, he hadn't noticed that a wet flyer had glued itself onto his shoe. His body language and facial tics seemed to imply nothing of a daring escape; but the same couldn't easily be said for Hart. Under his arm, she was in a cold sweat. Ramsey continued playing his part, occasionally engaging in lighthearted small talk in an incredibly dull tone. It would jarr Hart, but it was better than leaving her frightened. In the corner of his eye, the officers inched steadily closer. Red targets bobbed on their heads, displaying the distance he had from them. He pushed his glasses up, stopping dead in their tracks now that they've arrived at the street. As a crowd began to cross, they moved with them and blended in, but they never left the CDF's sights. Amidst the locals, someone like Doctor Robicheaux and Doctor Hart looked embarrassingly foreign. Ramsey pulled his arm off her and technically started to rush. It took fifteen seconds to get to the street and took five seconds to cross it. They entered the parking garage and Ramsey shot a look at Hart with a straight face. "Alright, now we run."

robicheaux, ramsey Ramsey never trusted free vaccines. Nor will he ever trust any from Last Chance. His reasoning behind it was that: it's Last Chance. It was clear that he didn't like Last Chance all that much. Maybe it was the air, the scent of wet garbage, the feeling of dread you get whenever you see a homeless human rotting by the sidewalk where everyone else walks right by. Gangs of street children resorting to sniffing glue to satiate their hunger, where the same kids get beat at the market for trying to steal a piece of meat. Ramsey wrinkled his nose and reveled in the atmosphere. Smells like a bunch of losers. He stood near a bench—making his trust issues clear on sitting—and looked at the direction where his comrade scoped out the view. From a far distance, one could tell he had a handsome figure. Classy trench coat, black turtleneck. It was a shame that his good looks were utterly wasted on him. He made eye contact with Gareau as he placed his spectacles on, his attention now circling back to a woman coming his way. "Doctor Robicheaux," he said, with a voice of a smoker and the scent of one, "You're Miss . . .?" @danzilla3

Pffffff. “A hand chainsaw?” Tommy mumbled under her breath with a grin, inspecting the walls ridden with graffiti, couple signatures, and unoriginal penis jokes. The light from Ashton's orb still wasn't enough to make out what any of the barely legible writing said. Then Tommy moved on to the next wall, where all the color from her body had drained into the sewer water below. It was like all the other walls, except what layered on top was a single massive claw mark that ripped through so deep, there was a pitch black shadow on the other side. Tommy placed her hand inside one of the four jagged strips strewn across the wall, and shuddered on the inside when there was still room for more hands. Looking back at her senior, she pretended to be unfazed, assuming that Justice most likely preferred a tough kid. "That actually sounds pretty cool," she said, walking over to Ashton, who had stared intently at a piece of trash. A ribbon. “Looks like we are in the right . . .” Ashton stopped talking. He made a face before saying: “You hear that?” Elvish ears perked up. ". . . Hear what?" Tommy whispered. They concentrated on the sounds. It was a short while before Ashton spoke again. “I think someone is down here.” She held her keychain dangling from her belt. "You hear it too? I thought it was just me." He brought his sword down. Tommy radiated with curiosity at the glint of his blade. "What do you want us to do?" "Hmm?" She drew a blank. Then, "Oh! Uh," Tommy pointed at herself, "me?" Ashton looked at her with a straight face. She stared at him with uncertainty in her eyes. When nothing else was said, Tommy swallowed a big lump in her throat and began to scratch at her head, forgetting that that hand was the same hand destined to become a chainsaw. In comparison to Ashton, he was calm, staring silently at Tommy in wait for her decision despite already making his own strategy. She struggled coming up with a plan, but ultimately decided that they should go investigate the strange sound. If they really do find someone, saving that person would be their first priority. "Let's check it out. The noises, I mean." They walked towards the two paths, two large circles in the middle of a small sewer hallway. ___________________________________________________________