#draggle

[heckyeahponyscans]

Advertisement for My Little Pony The Movie in G1 My Little Pony comic #23

[zokhun]

"Dirt cookies!"

A silly little comic of Draggle and me !!

(I hope selfship isn't cringe anymore,,,,)

[jazz--bugg]

So G1 witches redesigns anyone?

[autistic-fool-with-ideas]

Absolutely won with this find at the goodwill

[purple-eyesgreydragon]

Ze has a trait the depends on the company of the Mario Bros. Draggles have an imprinting trait when they're born. Somewhere on them indicates whom they'll be bonded too and want to accompany. Ze was born with a red 'M' and green 'L' each on her palms. She's tied to them and her appearance changes with who she's with. When Ze is with both of them or on her own, its her usual yellow color. With just Mario, her hair turns red. Just Luigi, her hair turns green.

Her hair is on average yellow because when green and red colors are mixed, the color produced is yellow. Yellow is a secondary color which is obtained by mixing two primary colors (red and green).

[ocellaroid]

she deserved literally the whole world

[honeyharedude30]

[malwarechips]

some doodles of my familiars lmao

POV: yuo are literally any enemy ever and john is here

[bitter1stuff]

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable

TODAY'S ENTRY: Draggle-tail

[less-than-triggery]

love the original fiend folio but this art is unquestionably better. original has that "pee-chee doodles" energy that hipster artists loved to recreate in the 'late '00s-'10s.

and NILBOG IS GOBLIN BACKWARDS

The release of the Fiend Folio Appendix (1992) felt like a victory for reasons I can’t quite explain. I think, maybe, because on some level we realized that the original Fiend Folio was seen as an unpopular 1E D&D book because it didn’t get an orange spine reprint (or perhaps it was somehow forbidden, like the earliest editions of Deities & Demigods, with the Cthulhu and Elric material?). Perhaps all that gory Russ Nicholson art made it totemic of the aspects of 1E that were now, thanks to the angry moms, deemed unseemly? I don’t remember and even if I did, I am not sure it would make real sense.

Whatever the reason, the Fiend Folio was back. This appendix collected, give or take, all the monsters from the original folio that had not already been Compendiumified (grell, for instance, where in the Greyhawk appendix). There are some that, flipping through, seem new, mostly filler like the darter, a type of lizard, or the scathe, a kind of evil icy gliding humanoid amphibian? I dunno man, Fiend Folio was always for weirdos, I’m OK with it, plus the illustration is by Steve Bisette. The rest of the art is by the Tom Baxa and Mark Nelson tag team, and just about all of it is tightly done. Nelson seem particularly on his game. That hellcat? The retriever? A+.

The Easley cover is very nice, probably the brightest and most colorful of the lot (which is maybe ironic, considering how much heavy black ink is inside the original Folio, but the original Emmanuel cover is pretty colorful now that I’m thinking about it). I believe the pale fellow is a fog giant, in the middle is the kamadan and the right is a xill. Mindbogglingly: there is no page or attributes for the kamadan inside! How do you mess that up?!

[zokhun]

Some silly Draggle stuff that I did,, This is only the beginning of my madness, more Draggle stuff is coming,,,

[purple-eyesgreydragon]

Well it took me awhile but I finally designed my Mario OC, Ze a fire form. Ze as a draggle can't breathe fire. Unless she gets a fire flower power-up. Whereas her hair usually changes color depending on the presence of either of the Mario Bros. Fire Ze's hair becomes blue fire and stays that color. Despite her fire hair color, her power-up fire is purple. As always Ze is ever faithful and is eager to aid and accompany the Super Mario Bros. anyway she can.

(Edit) Ze’s design is updated.

[aloysiavirgata]

Prompt! Vulnerable post-case Scully. She can be prickly (because I love your Scully) but also delicate. Case-related vulnerability is my most favourite vibe in the series and every so often I get sad that there are no more moments to watch. Thank you 💜

By the time she gets around to taking it off, her blood-soaked starched blouse has all but melded with her skin. They have to peel it from her body with a crackling sound. Her jacket is already stiffly tented in the corner.

He will burn those items later, he will burn and burn and burn.

***

Acrid scent of gunpowder in the air still. Blood like pennies baking on hot tarmac. Cortisol, adrenaline.

Terror.

Her grasping fingers, her grasping hands, her wracking sobs even as he pried her away to check for wounds.

***

Mulder helps her to his bathroom, holding her elbow as she staggers beside him like a fawn. Her hair is dried in ragged, bloody clumps.

He settles her onto the toilet lid, gets the bath running at her preferred level of scald. He squirts in a few blobs of his pine-scented body wash, which begin to foam. Scully smiles a heartbreaking smile in thanks.

“Bubbles,” he says, inanely.

Scully’s chest is caked with blood, even with her shirt removed to reveal the stained satin of her bra. Her belly is streaked with it, her black trousers rusty and stiff.

How is there any blood still inside her? How is she still here?

She has her arms crossed at her lap, her head bowed. He cannot see anything but her white shoulders and her draggled hair and her dark, narrow thighs.

“Scully,” he whispers.

She gazes up, hollow-eyed. “He didn’t…” she begins. “We never….”

She looks away, lower lip between her teeth.

“Oh, Scully.”

His hands are gentle at the clasp of her bra; he turns his eyes from her breasts even though he’s seen them.

He unbuttons the fine wool trousers at her waist, slides them down with her dark panties. He doesn’t look or touch or breathe more than he has to because the idea of connecting any of this to lust makes him sick.

Her hips, the dark triangle of sunset hair between her thighs, are also sticky with blood. The lace clings a little and she winces. Her trouser lining tugs. Finally, she is nude. She is so small and so bloody and so bare, like a newborn creature.

Mulder guides her towards the tub, averts his eyes like she is Artemis bathing. Tries not to think the name Diana.

Scully, breast-deep in bubbles. Scully dripping rusty rivulets in the steam. Her tears are silent now, streaking paths down her blood-smattered kidskin face.

Mulder fills a scuffed blue plastic Knicks cup with water, curves his palm around her eyes. “Look up,” he murmurs, and she does, distant, outside of herself.

He sluices water over her head until it runs clear, until she is sleek as an otter, a siren, a goddess. She gasps a little, spreads her fingers against her skull.

Her freckles are magnified by the falling water, her eyes a little too big. A little too round. Her nose is straight and queenly throughout however; her lips parted like a budding tulip.

He massages pearly-blue Head and Shoulders shampoo into the rare, persimmon beauty of her hair. He massages her scalp until she purrs a little. He touches her until his nerves are settled.

“Mulder,” she says, and grasps his forearm in her fine, pale hand. Her face is pre-Raphaelite. Her face is like a D below middle-C; a plucked bowstring, still quivering.

Agent Mulder is already in love.

“Padgett was crazy, he was -“ she begins.

“Sshhhh,” he says. “I have conditioner.” He holds the bottle out, a drugstore brand promising THICKNESS!!! and SHINE!!!

She laughs and it warms him like a hot toddy, like the sun in August, like the sand at Ninigret Pond.

***

Scully is clean, finally, even her smudged makeup rubbed away. They’ve drained and refilled the tub with fresh water, with fresh bubbles. She seems like herself again, not so dazed.

He passes her his robe, turns his head to hold it out when she stands.

“You’re so Victorian.”

“Oh, you know how much I love to lie back and think of England.” He glances over. “The memories are so nice, Phoebe and all.”

Scully ties the too-long belt in a big square knot. “It was kindly meant.” Her smile is soft.

“I know.”

They shift awkwardly for a moment in the small space. Scully looks like a kid dressed up as an angel for a Nativity play in that enormous robe, her bare face and bare feet and tumbled halo of hair.

“Thank you,” Scully begins finally. “I couldn’t have-“

“I’m sorry,” he says at the same time.

Scully frowns. “Why on earth are you sor-“

“My neighbor. So I feel like I..I don’t know. I led him to you.” He picks at a non-existent hangnail.

Scully sighs. “Oh, Mulder.”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t… I didn’t mean to make it about me, I know these are your choices, that you’re not some damsel in distress. I just hate when these things hurt you.”

Things is such an inadequate word, but no word ever could be adequate.

Scully blinks. She opens the door, wafts into his bedroom with the steam. Trails his bathrobe like a court gown.

Mulder follows after, wary. Watches her sprawl on his bed, far from the blood stains in the living room. He’s already called the crime-scene cleanup company.

Again.

She pats the bed next to her. “I promise I won’t take advantage of you.”

He laughs a little at that, remembers her looking a lot like this years ago in Bellefleur, in that awful motel with that terrible brown Clairol wash on her hair. He flops next to her. “Any mosquito bites you want me to check, Doctor Scully?”

She thumbs his cheek. “I was a child.”

He kisses her nose so that he doesn’t kiss her mouth. Though why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t they?

“I was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea…” he quotes. Trails off. What are they doing, this isn’t a partnership. This is strange and awful and gorgeous. Her dying baby in his arms, her ova, her-

“In her sepulchre there by the sea…” Scully murmurs. “In her tomb by the sounding sea.” She closes her eyes.

They breathe one another’s air. They breathe artificial pine scent, dryer sheets, warm nitrogen. Faded cotton, old paper.

“Are you okay?” he asks, so he doesn’t slip a finger between her thighs. So he doesn’t say I love you the way oysters love the morning tide.

Her finger at his lips, her breath on his lashes. Her sweet, warm skin and her extraordinary brain and the scarred palimpsest of her body right here.

“No,” she says, stroking his jaw. “But I will be.”

****

She stays with him all night and he stays with her all night and they are arranged like the Lovers of Valdaro.

His coffee pot is programmed. His carpet is soaked in her blood, her gun is going to be the subject of an investigation.

He and Walter will protect her.

***

She loses the robe at 2AM, mumbling something vague about being tangled and too hot. Her naked body is now asleep against his chest and he lets go, finally, in the sweet vulnerability of her slim arms that can heal and kill.

[inexplicifics]

My brain immediately went to getting caught in the rain and then getting warmed back up so how about Cozy prompt 1 & Geralt/Jaskier

obviously *you* don’t have to use “caught in a rain storm”!

Geralt is used to the rain. He gets rained on a lot, and usually there isn’t anywhere nearby to get out of the rain, so he doesn’t tend to bother to take a break unless it’s truly bucketing down. He just shrugs his oiled-wool cloak over his shoulders and pulls the hood forward so it shields his face and promises Roach a hot mash the next time they get to an actual stable.

He doesn’t think about it, the first time it rains after the bard joins him. He’s not used to having a traveling companion. The bard squawks when the rain starts, but the bard squawks about everything, from hangnails to pretty birds to the shade of the sky at sunset. It’s hard to tell which exclamations actually matter, and Geralt has to pay attention to the road and the possibility of monsters or opportunistic mercenaries or even potential dinner-hunting prospects, so it’s easiest to - not ignore the bard, but let his words flow in one ear and out the other and only really notice if they sound like pain or genuine fear.

He notices when the squawking dies away, though, and the bard subsides into an uncharacteristic silence. That’s enough to get Geralt to rein Roach in and look back to see if the bard has fallen into a ditch or something of the sort.

But no, he’s right there, a few paces away where he won’t get kicked if Roach spooks, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched and no cloak at all shielding him from the driving rain.

Ah. Hm.

Geralt knew the bard didn’t have much in the way of traveling gear, but somehow he didn’t really think about it, aside from noting that the bard’s boots are not really meant for long journeys and he’ll probably need new ones if they can find a decent cobbler who doesn’t charge through the nose. The fact that the bard doesn’t have a proper rain cloak didn’t really occur to Geralt.

Humans get cold easier than witchers. They get sick easier, too, when they do get cold.

The bard stops and peers up at Geralt through the draggling ends of his rain-slicked hair. “What’s happening?” he asks, clearly trying to sound eager and failing.

Geralt huffs and reaches up to unclasp his cloak, swinging it off his shoulders and leaning over - Roach makes a disgruntled noise but stands firm - to drape it over the bard, flipping the hood up to cover the bard’s head. It’s large enough to cover the damned lute-case, too.

The bard blinks up at him in bewilderment. “What?”

“You need a proper cloak,” Geralt grumbles, and settles back into the saddle, grimacing as the rain starts to trickle down the back of his neck. The bard curls his fingers into the edges of Geralt’s cloak, pulling it snugly around him, and gives Geralt a look of such blatant adoration that Geralt has the sudden and equally strong urges to go hide up a tree and to display like a courting peacock.

He doesn’t do either, of course. Instead, he urges Roach back into motion. There’s a town close enough that they ought to be able to reach it by sunset, and with a little luck there’ll be a decent rain cloak for sale that isn’t too dear.

The bard hastens to catch up, boots squelching in the muddy road, and as he takes his place at Geralt’s side again, he starts to babble happily about the beauty of the rain.

Well. That’s alright then.

Geralt tilts his head so his hair won’t drip directly down his back and lets Jaskier’s chatter wash over him like summer sunshine.

(Or HERE on AO3!)

[gribbo]

It seems silly, somehow, to split up just to bathe in the stream—as if they're blushing acolytes, as if hearing each other's thoughts is less revealing than glimpsing each other's bodies. Yet the men splash far downriver—the wizard's voice whines through the rushes, complaining of the cold—while Shadowheart, hunched on the bank half a league off, wrings blood and illithid slime out of her hair. Lady of Sorrows, she has so much hair. She remembers how to rebraid it, but not who taught her.

It must not matter, she thinks. She bends like a supplicant and floats her hair in the water. Vally, who'd saved her from that pod, backstrokes by.

"Toffs," she says with a lopsided grin, glancing back at the men's noise. She'd gashed her cheek open in the crash. She prods the sore spot with her tongue as if Shadowheart thinking it had reminded her—probably it had—then rights herself, dripping, and throws back the draggle of her curls. It whips her shoulder with a wet slap. "You and misself, though, we might get by."

Shadowheart's hands snag in a tangle. Pain is sacred, she remembers; she yanks it out. "Might."

She feels those eyes—gentle, thoughtful, too trustworthy by far—like she feels the moon's insulting glow. "Might be quicker to put your head under."

"Really?" It would be quicker. The thought of it makes her shiver, which makes her sharp. "When I need your advice, I'll let you know."

There's no reproach in the silence that follows—only a cricket's chirp, the rustle of sleeping leaves, the soft splash of Vally ducking under again. Shadowheart feels the wordless shape of her mind, stronger and more solid for its closeness: the amusement that tickles like the reeds, the water closing around her in a cool, living rush. She has to quest out for the three downstream, the minstrel and the magistrate and Gale, who blur into one mass of disgruntled thought—

What was that—

Probably Hirudo verbana—

Don't cast spells at me—a leech? You mean a bloody leech—oh, no, no, no, no more parasites, thank you—

Shadowheart, curtained in wet hair, catches the laugh as it comes out. The hand pressed to her mouth tastes of the Chionthar: silty and bitter, like some medicinal wine. Not even Astarion had wanted to camp in the ruin. Back to the strid, Vally had said with that misshapen smile.

"Vally," she calls, unthinking. She rakes back her hair. The last of its filth swirls downstream.

The water parts. A fey and freckled face, floating upside-down, breaks Shadowheart's reflection.

"I should have thanked you properly," she says—then stills, wary, and waits. Her hand twinges, but only that. She feels abruptly as though she's the one floating. "For saving my life."

Vally's impish brows go up. "You did thank me—"

Shadowheart touches her flayed cheek. It's cold as the river. When she lifts her hand, the wound has knitted to a scar.