#i stand by that title

[hecoxthirst]

Thank you so much @punk-gremlin for the tag. For those who don't know how this works, you post the first and last lines of your ten most recent fics (if you have that many fics) 1. Can I guess who kissed me? Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla (Smosh) "Courtney was the one to bring up the idea for the first time." and "This is the happiest he’s ever been."

2. Alone doesn't suit you Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla (Smosh) "Ian has been stressing about today since Anthony agreed to meet." and "Anthony nods and places a kiss to Ian’s temple." 3. Sharing bed like little kids Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla (Smosh) "Sharing a bed with an older version of Anthony feels so odd." and "He wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else." 4. Ivy and forget-me-nots Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla (Smosh) "Everyone in the world is born with a little bud drawn on their inner wrist." and "Without having to think about it too much, he just does the most natural thing he could do. He kisses his soulmate." 5. Careful what you wish for Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla (Smosh) "Anthony gradually wakes up." and "Turns out he can get adult Anthony flustered too, after all." 6. No thoughts, head full (of cum) Eddie Clayton/Charlie Ross (Ghostmates) "Charlie is quietly focusing on his work, doing some line art on his new tablet." and "He... has a feeling he’s going to be thinking about this experience for a long time." 7. Good girl Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla (Smosh) "Ian feels like he’s perfected the fifties housewife look at this point." and "He leans in and connects their lips." 8. Oh let me use you baby, I love you Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla (Smosh) "Anthony’s on his bed, hand in his pants, trying to picture touching his girlfriend." and "Whatever is going to happen, he knows they’ll get through it together." 9. A part of me that will never be mine Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla (Smosh) "There’s something familiar about this scene." and "So then, why does he desperately wish he could wake up?" 10. What if you closed your eyes Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla (Smosh) "It’s a quiet afternoon, Ian sits on his couch listening to Anthony recount what was going through his mind when they shot the Who Slapped Me video." and "To have Anthony like this, the way he has him now? He’d endure all that and more." I don't know how many people I'm supposed to tag, or who to tag for the matter. I don't know who in this fandom has already done this, but I assume everyone 'cos everyone is just tagging each other lol So I'm gonna throw in a bunch of my friends from my older fandoms! @zeldahime @prewar-james @khazadspoon @feral-teeth @blondeforyou @commander-kiranerys If any of you have already done this or have no interest in doing this feel free to ignore <333 ily guys

[beanghostprincess]

not romantic. not platonic. but a secret third more passionate thing (a captain and his first mate)

[redinthesea]

had an anxiety attack last night and coped by drawing a known fellow anxiety haver experiencing my own plight in hopes the blorbo projection game would help

[halflifebutawesome]

anyone wanna be boy bestfriends in a scary research facility and get increasingly concerned for eachothers well-being?

[sky-scribbles]

'The Chantry's authority supersedes the crown in this matter,' says the Templar.

Anders almost splutters says who, but the words never make it out. Partly because he knows the answer is says the Templars, it's always says the Templars, they've never needed any other reason. But mostly because the Warden-Commander steps in front of him before he can speak.

'That's funny,' she says, so brightly that her tone somehow manages to circle all the way around to being extremely dark, actually. 'Because I happen to be the crown. So let me ask you this: are you so desperate to execute one mage that you're willing to kill the Queen of Ferelden to do it? Are you prepared to go back to Denerim and explain yourself to the king? Oops, stabbed your wife. Not an accident, actually. She's dead now. Are you ready to do that?'

They are, Anders thinks helplessly, they absolutely are, there's no point trying to bluff them -

And then he sees the Commander's hand drifting to her shoulder for an arrow; sees the immovable plant of her body between the Templars and him. And he knows with a shock of wonder that she isn't bluffing.

'Because if you want to take my Warden,' she says, every word suddenly snapping cold, 'that is what you're going to have to do.'

The Templars try to do just that, of course. But they don't get to try for very long.

[backjustforberena]

Princess Rhaenys + the positions of power that were never hers and yet...

[whoyacallinyellow]

To The Fallen

Charles Smith x F! reader

Spoilers: major RDR2 events Content: 18+ mdni, m/f smut, drunk sex, angst, tension, possessive, canon typical events / violence, possible unintentional spelling mistakes Type: second pov (wc - 3693) / pc: pinterest

Summary: After the gang’s downfall, you join Charles on his endeavors. While roughing it in the woods, you convince him to share a drink with you…

“C’mon Charles, live a little.” 

You encouraged the man, sat upon a log as he tended to the small campfire you shared. He sighed at your relentless begging, gazing at you over the orange flames. Truly torn, he hated to turn you down, but your safety was more important than your idea of a good time. 

“What if something happens?— besides, someone needs to take care of you.” 

The man reasoned with your buzzed mind, gesturing towards the half empty glass you cradled on your knee. 

Your eyes followed him as he joined you, carefully studying his every step before he sat next to you, tobacco leeching off his clothes and filling the air. 

“It’ll be fine.” You reassured softly, watching him glance longingly into the flames once again. His eyes carried a certain sorrow that did not leave since Beaver Hollow. Apathy had stuck to Charles like a ball and chain, burying his friends was a pastime he did not favor, with Arthur being the final nail in the coffin. 

After the fallout of the gang, the two of you spent your time roughing it in sticks, you reckoned somewhere between Canada and northern United States. You felt as if it were the smartest move to be as far away as possible, while Charles was a man who did not like running. He was fully aware the severity of his actions came with a big price— but he was willing to compromise for you. 

Charles always seemed to know what to do, and where to go. He found refuge in your company and trust, the close bond you shared only flourished after being by your lonesome. The man wouldn’t want it any other way, sometimes pondering where he would be, or what he would be doing without you. The doubts he kept quiet and buried deep often resurfaced the moments he was reminded how sweet on you he was. 

“You could use one.” You continued, placing a small hand on his knee with the attempt to break his trance. You so desperately wished to lend him a penny for a thought, but your attempts usually went nowhere. 

The man huffed in defeat, encapsulating his hand over yours tenderly. 

“Maybe just one.” 

Charles reluctantly agreed, his words barely finished before you filled his unused glass with a much needed relaxation aid. 

You scooted closer as a Canadian breeze whipped past, which made his grasp slip politely around you. The man’s arm alone somehow carried more warmth than any blanket could give you. Or perhaps it was the security he offered with each touch.  

“Uh— to the fallen.” 

You propose awkwardly, raising your glass lazily to the man who met you with a stupid smirk. 

With your tipsy state being more than amusing to the outlaw, your words would be teased and mocked in the morning, in addition to gentle kisses as compensation— if you were lucky. 

“To good health, my girl.”  

He compromised huskily, his words presenting a much more giddy side which had been long erased with time. Charles lounged in the moment, the drink would allow a disconnect from his thoughts, unwilling to think about the gang under the grip of a bottle. 

You took his offer with a small clink, the contents of his glass sloshing and spilling into yours. 

Charles always knew you had his best interest in mind, the same he held for you. And with everything that happened in the past year, maybe he’s been too uptight and miserable. He reasoned that self reflection would come after a night of fun, maybe he did need this. 

The night seemed to slip from his grasp after that point. His incoherent banter blew through the trees and vacant wilderness, undoubtedly scaring any animal or man for miles. Charles would often lean against you for temporary support, his hand sneaking through your inner thigh, and lingering for a moment to prop himself upright before continuing his casual slurs. The bottle loosened his tongue more than you expected, allowing him to exaggerate a memory or two. 

You have not seen the man wear such a toothy grin since Sean was rescued, a celebration where he took the liberty of more than one drink. As you walked past the rowdy group by the fire, he would match Sean and Karen by pulling you onto his lap. A drunken stunt he would never dare pull sober in front of the others, denying every bit of the scandal once teased the day after. His leg would bounce effortlessly to the music beneath you, wobbling you tightly to his chest. All you could think about was the stubble of his chin digging into your shoulder, the way his fingertips treaded dangerously close to your waist—as if he was taunting you. His hard bulge you rested on would go unacknowledged by the man as he bounced his leg, but not you.

It was a sick game he played and perhaps enjoyed a little too much, testing your willpower for him every moment available.  

Charles’ one ended up being your three, his glass being long retired in favor of the bottle, swaying between his fingers as he nursed it sporadically. 

As the man went over the deep end you just spectated, you figured the least you could do was take care of him for one night, as he does for you every other. One night off was the very least he deserved. 

“S’enough now, reckon you oughta sleep.” 

Your words interrupted Charles, an unmistakable hum rattling through his chest. It hurts you how much the gang lived within the man, even while blackout drunk, Javier’s rhythms that played years ago flowed through him. 

You arose stiffly to your feet, which the man unsteadily followed, his arms swaying and outstretched to recoup some balance. 

The fire had died down along with his energy, Charles’ half-lidded eyes wandered, barely illuminating off the flame. 

Your unexpected touch at the man’s nether region triggered his reflex with a stagger as you unclasped his taut gun belt. Relieving him of today's responsibilities. 

“Oh hush,” 

You murmured, your concentration ignoring his sudden silence. 

Glancing up at the man who towered over you was now stiff as a board, arms hung by his sides as he stared back directly into your soul. 

His lips parted ever so slightly, but nothing came out besides a sigh, the bottle dulling his expression, but emphasizing fervency. 

All Charles could do was stare, his mind clouding over his better judgment— the thought of you seemed to do that often. 

He remembered a particularly sunny day at Clemons Point, a job gone not to plan. You tended to the man’s wounds as he recovered in a cot. Your eyes heavy and looming over each part of his injured body, a sense of worship you held for his temple he simply did not. White bandages decorated his torso and bicep, a familiarity with his body and scars that only you held. The sacredness and safety your touch gave him made his pride not allow anyone else to see him in such a way, not that he would ever tell you. 

You would not speak while focusing on him, not even to ask for an explanation of the wounds. But your vibrant presence would keep him company in the midst of your silence. 

The feeling would eventually leave him as you wandered off, he would watch your figure lingering in the distance, pondering while gazing off the beautiful lands camp offered you. Your apprehensive mannerisms worried the man, which he mistook as forlornness. Charles would justify the scenarios, a double edged sword he deemed to be second nature— you knew what type of man he was. 

You would bide your time against a nearby tree in eyeshot of the cot, ensuring his peace. But would return before too long, your eyes slightly uplifted in spirit. Once again presenting Charles with the same feeling he had before you left the tent. 

Perched up on the barrel level with the cot, the back of your delicate hand would linger on his forehead before caressing down his scuffed cheek, the same touches his mother would give him as a boy. 

Your silence was louder than any words you could have said, you loved him and he always knew.

—

“M’sorry.”

The man uttered after a needy kiss. Insincerity snuck upon his lips, unsure of what exactly he was apologizing for— was it to you? Or was it guilt of the broken man he’s become?— when exactly did he dismiss the morals he subscribed to? 

Now laying in the tent you shared, your lust for him kept him far from his drunken mind, his pants you had undone tempted his desires over redemption. Charles somehow held no recollection of your hands working down there.

Once again your silence was louder than words, fingertips tracing gingerly over his bulge. Subtly begging him to give into his desires, give into you. Charles always had different plans for your first time together, but the past years haven’t been kind, making the time never right— he never once considered taking you while a drunken idiot. 

But your body would soon be consumed by that very same desire, he would only leave your lips momentarily while clothes were kicked off. 

The unsuitable lighting made the man rely on his hands, touches that were a test of how well he knew your body, by now considering it an extension of himself. 

“Charles,” 

His name deliciously exhaled from your lips at the slightest feel of him. Your voice saying his name in such a manner forever burnt a mark into his mind. You molded into every touch of his, which only encouraged his high. His calloused fingertips ran from your hip bones to your breasts, touching the off guard parts of you to everyone but him. 

“Yeah?” 

Charles eventually answered, his gruff voice lowly exiting his chest with an unforeseen force. 

Stroking himself, the man positioned at your entrance, his tip preparing you extensively. Charles’ neck craned back as pleasure began to soar through him, a sharp sigh being exerted at the slightest feel of himself in you. 

“Think you can take me?”

Less of a question, the man wondered out loud through a slur. The syllables lazily slid off his tongue as he teased his head back and forth through your heat. His jaw had gone slack from a combination of ecstasy and concentration, your wetness and anticipation only grew with each of his strokes. 

He hoped to get more noise from you. So desperately wanting you to be loud for him, no camp, no one to worry about— just you. You were his one and only focus, as it should have been from the start. 

Your silence was temporary, captivated by your lover teasing you between your legs. 

“Go on then,” 

Your voice came out as a pitiful whine, a beg of yours he would not take lightly. 

The large man hummed through his amusement and pleasure, his hands covering every area of skin he could on you. Scooting you closer to his preference came with ease, his pull on your hips united your thighs to his. With how light and sweet Charles’ casual touches were, you sometimes forgot how strong the man really was. 

“Charles!”

Your frustrated moan was music to his ears, it broke through the man’s clouded brain like the sound of a gunshot. A distracted hand was still placed on the base of his cock, threading it through your lips in awe. 

“Okay— ok, sweet girl, don’t know if I’ll fit s’all.”

He contemplated out loud, his voice remained low and primal, glossed over drunken eyes lustfully staring into yours, a hint of playfulness being held within the brown wells.

It was the same look they held the day of your hunting trip for Mr. Pearson. You insisted on joining Charles, less to assist and more to loiter and encourage the man. A simple and innocent request he would never refuse. You held onto his torso as he rode Taima, to his dismay your hands would wander further, and further down, until resting prettily on either side of his groin. You would see the man headbob towards the saddle, infatuated with both your boldness and touch— needless to say, you both returned to camp empty handed that day. 

—

The wind that rippled through the tent canvas sent chills through your bones, your naked frame being consumed by goosebumps which the man took humor in. His rough fingertips wasted no time fiddling with your nipples before covering you with his body. Finally exchanging his body heat with yours that would not be needed for long. 

Now fixated on your upper body, it did not take him long to cover you in his hungry mouth, his shaft still grinding against your lips as he eagerly thrusted, barely touching your entrance with each movement. 

Taking matters into your own hands, your patience grew thin, reaching down and directing the man where you needed him. 

The abrupt contact caused spots to flood in vision, Charles’ pleasure and whiskey filling his palette in a way he did not know possible. A part of him wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop after taking you, afraid he would accidentally hurt you in his drunken stupor. His lack of control over his dire state only showed the desperateness Charles usually hid from you. 

Your fingers laced around the man’s bare chest, little nothings you would mumble as you took his length. Charles still doesn’t know what got into him, all the pent up desire for you finally being spent with a slow and powerful thrust that swooped to your core. Despite his eagerness and your moans, he somehow mustered up enough composure to allow you to get used to his size. 

“So tight for me,”

Was all the man grunted through his drunken lust, he thought you took his size so well for him, almost as if you were made for him as a lover. 

Your fingernails that dragged along his back earned you some groans and abrupt movements that were particularly passionate.  

Hearing him in such a worked up manner only made you tighter around him. It was enough to nearly make the man lightheaded as pleasure roamed throughout the tent. 

Words weren’t needed for Charles to understand that your desperation was mutual to his. Your walls continued to grow wet and clench around him with every adjustment and word of his, making a mess of the bedrolls beneath you both. 

“You should’ve took me that night— at Shady Belle.”

Your unsteady words momentarily stopped the man in his tracks. His body frozen atop of yours as he mentally mapped out just how long you’ve been wanting him this way. 

Charles remembered the look you gave him as he peeled off the layers of his bank heist clothing, gun belt falling to his ankles with a clank. He was the only man to return from Saint Denis that night. You followed him around camp like a lost dog, eyes glued to him, silently begging for an ounce of him. You always knew if any man were to return from a botched heist, it would be Charles Smith. 

Your need for him then would go unfulfilled, his large hands lingered lovingly on your waist everytime he rushed past you to assist what was left of the gang, as if he silently acknowledged your desperation. Charles always carried that sense of urgency and composure you did not— he was the last man with a lick of leadership, afterall. 

You wore a similar look now, needy and willing.  

A lazy chuckle filled the tent before he planted a sloppy kiss on your lips, feeling your breath quiver against him was a reminder to continue. 

“Should’ve said, my girl.” 

Charles rebutted simply, allowing your moans to once again fill his ears as he moved swiftly but rhythmically. 

After all this time Charles knew what kind of lover he wanted to be for you, in his mind he earned you and your desire to be with him in such a way. Which meant you deserved to experience your importance and much more. 

Sensual and with purpose—at least for the first time. Each of his actions would show how much you meant to him. Charles thought about it more than he would like to admit, the days you would patch him up only encouraged the back door thoughts of showering your body in his devotion, your lingering touch merely drove those thoughts further. 

But the whiskey consumed his prior plans of reverence, only to reveal how badly he needed this— how badly he needed you. 

Every last bit of his self-control was thrown out the tent along with your clothes, discarded in the dirt by the fire.  

His hands gripping whatever skin of yours he could, small marks of his fingertips peppered on you, further demonstrating the long overdue tension he held prior to taking you. 

Lips and tongue that traveled on your breasts occasionally came with teeth, his excitement winning and the principals he usually held washed away with the prior drinks you shared. 

These marks the man would notice in the morning, guilt and embarrassment surging through him while planting soft kisses upon the possessive marks— Did he hurt you? Was he too rough?— Was he foolish?— he doesn’t remember, his head hurts. Your words of praise would feel just as genuine as it did the night prior, reassuring the man you enjoyed him just fine.

Your touch ghosted down his chest and to his bucking hips, tracing the muscles that flexed with each thrust. Both of your thighs now sopping, Charles let out a low moan, his stomach knotting and quivering under your spell. He guided your hands back up, not wanting to reach his peak quite yet, and your excessive touch would overstimulate him to that point. 

“Easy now.” 

Charles whispered, his voice gravelly and hoarse, a vague warning which slipped from his lips as smooth as the booze went down. The man knew you were close under his control, and how malleable you were only drove him closer to the edge. 

His braided hair had gracefully come undone from the intimacy, loose strands both dangling over your bare skin and sticking to his shoulders. 

Your body quivered beneath him, sensing your climax was near with excessive moans and breaths you gave him. Hearing you moan his name fully unleashed would replay in his mind for days to come, your pretty lips trembling was a sight for sore eyes. Hoisting himself back to his knees, his bottom lip slid between his teeth, rubbing your clit while he admired how you gripped his cock. So trusting, so excited, so wet, and it was all for him? 

His thrusts became more attentive, each one pressing and lingering deep within you, his back arching to meet your pelvis, ensuring no part of his length went neglected. 

If Charles didn’t know any better, he would have lingered in you a moment longer before finishing, basking in the pleasure your high presented him with. The same high he has been subconsciously chasing since Clemons Point. But instead his shaft planted onto your stomach as he climaxed, animalistic groans exiting the man as he marked you. 

Your lover’s chest heaved, lingering momentarily as he finished. Both soaked and relieved, he weakly lowered for yet another soft kiss. His necklace and hair tickling your collarbone as he recovered from his high. 

The mind fog prevented any sort of disruption of his focus on you. Charles studied your torso as you recovered yourself, the small faded scar he stitched up for you back in Colter now glistened under his love for you, it seemed so long ago to the man. He never once thought in this lifetime the girl he saved from a seemingly fatal stomach wound would be the same stomach covered in his seed. 

“‘Look real sweet like that.” 

He hummed, pride and satisfaction littering his tone. His voice rumbled in his chest, presenting signs of sobering up after his chase. 

“Oh?” Your lips formed into an amused grin, staring at your tired lover laying beside you, his toned figure barely visible in the tent besides the glossy formations of sweat beading down his chest. His dark eyes still hooked onto the mess he created on you.  

“Real sweet.” 

The man affirmed gently, figuring he would put you out of your misery and clean you off. 

How whipped was Charles? He could not tell. Every kiss you would give him later that night threw him over the moon. Your fingertips soothingly outlined the scar on his jaw as he held you tightly, your frame curled within his, thighs that pressed against him unknowingly gave him a certain friction that begged him for another round. 

But he decided you needed the rest, as he felt there would be more where tonight came from. He would make it up to you then. 

The embers cracked in front of your tent, with the trees swaying the distance, the white noise was enough to lull you to a slumber. But the man forced himself awake just moments longer to experience you. Relishing in a feeling he never wanted to leave him. Charles wished the night lasted a little longer, as he did with most good things he was fortunate enough to have come his way. He always wondered what he did to deserve those things, especially with all the sins under his belt. 

He felt as if he were sinking, or spinning, maybe it was spinning, his fingertips tapped rhythmically down your spine in his subconscious state, gaining your attention. 

“Sleep with me.” 

You cooed against his chest, words he could barely make out from your state of delirium. 

The man kissed your forehead in response, his mind that tried running off into the night was anchored back to you. Like most things were.  

Your wish was Charles' command, and he knew it would be the beginning of many more.   

~

[zorosroronoas]

absolutely hate how hard gail simone is pandering to romy shippers. nothing to do with the ship in specific, it could be any other & i'd feel the same way, but it always makes me uncomfortable when creatives behave like that.

[illmoraineakoi]

As much as I adore the idea of Alan being like a dad to the Color Gang, I am absolutely feral for interpretations where that’s not really the case.

Or, more specifically, when those feelings are very one sided.

The CG look up to him and adore him as a parental/guardian figure, loving him almost like a father, especially Orange in particular who 110% sees and loves Alan as a father figure, while Alan himself sees himself more as a tolerant friendly landlord; just a dude who’s letting five stick figures live on his computer and not really interacting with them (except for Orange) very much beyond playing a few games for them or sparring with them. And even with Orange, it’s more of a friendship relationship than a parent-child one. Just generally pretty emotionally detached/distant towards them, not really feeling very strongly about any of them. Sort of how IRL Alan speaks about them as characters; fond, but not loving*. He still largely just sees them as stick figures. Like smart little living desktop pets.

Which makes all of the potential scenarios where they meet on more equal grounds (Stick!Alan AUs and IRL!Sticks/Human!Sticks AUs) potentially very juicy.

The CG and Orange in particular are always very excited to meet and actually interact with Alan, and Alan just feels overwhelmed and awkward by all the affection/attention. Or perhaps even confused about why they seem to like him so much.

Which can very quickly turn into a situation where the Gang notices that Alan doesn’t seem very comfortable around them, that he’s not nearly as excited and enthusiastic about finally being able to touch and hug them as they are with him. That he seemed to be kind of distant from them, withdrawing away from them. Oh, he’s friendly and polite, and he’ll talk to them, he’s not being mean or ignoring them or anything, but it’s not really like how they always imagined meeting him would be. It’s not as happy and joyous. He doesn’t interact/engage with them on his own. Doesn’t offer hugs or pats or much affection at all. He’ll do it if they initiate or ask, but he never gives anything of the sort freely.

Perhaps they think it’s because everything is so new and fresh, that maybe he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed. Maybe he just needs a little time to get used to them.

But when they give him that time…nothing seems to change. And they’re just left even more confused and concerned. Why was he acting like this? He was never like this before… (or so they think.)

Or perhaps a situation occurs where it’s revealed that Orange sees him like a father, or perhaps Orange even calls him his father, and Alan denies it. Corrects him. Tells Orange that he’s not his parental figure, that he always thought they were just friends. That all of them were just a bunch of sticks he was letting live on his computer. He wasn’t their dad, where in the world did they get THAT weird idea from? He was just Alan, the owner of the computer they made their home on. He barely even knew them.

And the Gang is both shocked and heartbroken. They hadn’t known Alan felt that way, just as Alan hadn’t been aware of how they felt. It was so easy for misunderstandings and misinterpretations to happen between them when they couldn’t really communicate very well.

But Orange, Orange is devastated. It hurts, so bad, because Alan literally created him. Alan was his creator, the closest thing to an actual parent he had. And yet Alan didn’t want to fill that role towards him, didn’t want to be his father. He could have seen and understood Alan not considering himself the others’ parent, since Alan hadn’t made them, but Orange was undeniably his.

But Alan didn’t want him like that. Didn’t see him like that.

He was just a stick figure who frequently helped him animate and lived on his computer. The fact that Alan made him appeared to be irrelevant.

So Orange puts on a smile and accepts it, apologizing for misunderstanding. But inside, he’s raw. The rejection feels so awful.

And it stings just how relieved Alan looked after his apology, like he was grateful that they weren’t arguing about it.

Because they don’t. What more was there to say? Alan had made his feelings on the matter very clear, and who were they to try argue against that? To challenge him, and demand he change his feelings towards them? To demand he love them? No, that’s not how things worked. That wasn’t how love worked.

You can’t try to force someone who doesn’t love you to love you.

Instead, Orange goes to his room, and sobs. It hurts so much. It feels like a chunk of his heart has been ripped out, leaving a giant empty gap where it had been. He can’t stop thinking about why Alan didn’t love him even though he made him. He can’t help but wonder if it’s because somehow he wasn’t good enough. Or if he’d done something wrong.

Or if it was because he was just a stick figure. Not human. Not a “real” person in Alan’s eyes.

He doesn’t know, but it hurts all the same.

The others, too, mourn the loss of the only parent-like figure they’ve ever known. They never knew their own creator, whoever the person who actually made them even was, they only ever knew Alan. It stings, how all of his weird recent behavior now makes sense. He hadn’t needed time. He had never loved them as much as they, apparently mistakenly, thought he did in the first place. It leaves them feeling empty and bereft, at a loss for what to do with themselves now.

And Alan is left totally oblivious to just how badly he’s just hurt them all.

And totally oblivious to what he himself has just lost, the potential for what could have been.

…At least, until he goes through some Character Development and inevitably has some Realizations that “Oh shit, those actually ARE my kids, oh fuck what have I done?!” And he needs to claw back the gangs’ love and affection and trust they’d since given up on.

* - [Or at least that’s how it always felt for me, watching AvG reactions, though that could just be because IRL Alan just sounds kinda bland and introverted in most of his commentary on his own animations lmao “I mean I like Orange.” Bro that is your main character that has been spearheading your entire career for a literal decade, why do you sound about as enthusiastic about him as if someone just asked you about your favorite weather type lmao jk jk]

[joshuamj]

In Time and Stars

[dykevanny]

Who are you, really?

[petricorah]

something something i will follow you into the dark (comic wip)

[the-witchhunter]

DP x DC: No Time for Monkey Business

Danny’s family is gone. His parents, Jazz... 

Danny had come home to Fenton works only to find the place tossed and ransacked, the portal broken, and his family missing. Danny doesn’t know who to trust, but he needs to find his family and whoever took them. He can’t do it on his own though, He needs help. He needs a detective, and who better to help then the greatest detective in the world...

Bobo T. Chimpanzee aka Detective Chimp

For those of you unfamiliar with Detective Chimp, he is canonically the best detective in the world, better than Batman who is merely the best human detective. His skills include being able to speak to any living creature, eternal youth, hyperintelligence, incredible deductive skills, occult knowledge, and alcoholism

okay, the alcoholism isn’t a skill bit it’s wild he’s an alcoholic in canon. His entire lore is frankly wild, including Rex the Wonder Dog and the fountain of youth plus a court case that examined the implications of him being an animal owning his own business and making contracts. The ape has been in a surprising amount of team ups, from Batman, to the Shadowpact, and is in the regular rotation of Justice League Dark

He owns a magic sword called the Sword of Night, and is sassy with a sort of dry humor. Honestly kind of similar to constantine in some ways.

And Danny should play the Watson to his Sherlock. 

[pigin-is-so-rad]

Lera my beloved I love this game everyone has to go play it this instant to understand why I love my sad Russian rat girl

[quantumfeat72]

(You got a MEMORY OF GIVING UP!) (You'll always remember this.)

[If Memory of Giving Up is equipped when you leave Dormont, the Interloper will not approach you to offer help that loop.]

(more of this!)

[bonefall]

(dif anon) So is Ashfur grooming Shadowsight a plotline you would keep/rework in BB? I'm not so keen on the way canon used it to retcon his epilepsy, but I do think a plotline examining how clerics can be vulnerable to abuse from StarClan spirits is kinda compelling

Shadowsight's epilepsy is staying in BB, the Erins can try and take it away again over my dead body

Yes, that's staying and BB!StarClan was reworked with unfairness in mind.

This time around, I'm considering the idea that Ashfur didn't work completely alone. After the events of Squirrelflight’s Horror, Silverpelt's divisons are starting to crackle the stars.

Skystar and the other more traditional spirits are losing patience with the peace that Fire Alone brings, and the ways that the code has been bent.

They feel that honor is being lost in their descendants.

Even angels disrespect the collective; see how Skypelt has its own heaven? With a demon in its midst? There is blasphemy even in the skies.

Firestar and the more modern pantheon are ferociously defensive of the choices of the living. StarClan exists for them; not the other way around.

Meanwhile, Mousefur has gone missing. Others start to blink out, too. This is causing panic... and Ashfur keeps it quiet that he's the only one who knows where they've gone.

The angels that plan action probably were a small group to begin with, radical spirits. Skystar and Ashfur are two of them, and Ash is the "youngest." So when he comes down to the mortal plane and betrays them, very few other angels knew what had happened.

(I might even have a few angels be doing the various supernatural things in that first book, but slowly, Ashfur is wittling down their numbers until it's just him.)

I'm still working out specifics, but the other angels that Ashfur has consumed are giving him a massive power boost. He can use this to jump between planes freely, and he's able to do some whacky things like weave dreams and pull nightmares out of the Dark Forest.

The most important unique power he has, which he can do ALL on his own once he's absorbed enough starpower, is blast Shadowpaw with a bolt of lightning. The electric current runs through Shadowpaw's brand new scar, giving him a connection to StarClan like he's a little radio tower.

Thing is... when StarClan is blocked off, the only signal he receives is Ashfur's.

So, Shadowpaw.

From the time he was very young, Shadowkit has had an unhealthy relationship to life and death

He watched a lot of cats die before he was old enough to really understand it, and the only one who came back was Heartstar.

His epilepsy was so severe it would have been terminal. He was prepared to die as a kit.

Tawnypelt took him to the Tribe to learn more about treatments, bringing back a method of refining chamomile to manage the convulsions.

When people come back from death, it was to serve "a purpose."

He feels like he needs to be special, like he needs to find the great meaning in his life. The reason why he's still here.

In BB, there can be guardian angels. Cats you knew in life who decide to watch out for you in the afterlife. Moleflight is Jayfeather's, Shrewface is Squirrelflight’s. Ashfur poses as Shadowpaw's.

THAT is how I plan to address my criticism. Ashfur DOES build a very personal, trusting relationship with Shadowpaw, pretending to be the one who's here to give him the destiny he craves. Pretending like he's someone looking out for him.

I actually LIKE how desperate the situation was in-canon and I want to stress how none of this was Shadow's fault, so I also plan to keep that they had very little choice. Shadowpaw trusts his angel completely, and Ashfur coaches him on saying all the right things.

The older Clerics are suspicious, but... what else can they do?

Also, instead of framing this all as something Shadowpaw needs to "atone" for, I'm going to make certain cats unfairly scapegoat him for bringing the Impostor into the forest. Shadowpaw himself agrees with them, blaming himself, but he has to learn it wasn't his fault.

He DIDN'T let anyone down by failing to live up to great expectations, and there's no way he could have known that Ashfur was using him. This never happened before, he always made the choice he thought was right and tried to make up for harm done, and he's not responsible for what his abuser made him do.

I actually want to have him figure out some of this by talking to DF demons, towards the end. Cats faaaar more responsible for what they did in life than him.

Ravenwing in particular, who was also mislead by a rogue StarClan spirit, but... ultimately decided that if StarClan was right in their judgement.

He was told (by Birchface, but he still doesn't know who it was in particular) to make three kittens unsafe by revealing their parentage. His choice killed three innocent children, and lead to the Queen’s Rights.

And StarClan was furious that he'd ever believe they'd want something so CRUEL.

And even if they DID want something so cruel... "Then they wouldn't have been ancestors worth following. And that's why I believe it's right that I'm here."

As a Cleric, he had authority on their behalf. And if they would misuse it through him, he wishes he could have just given it right back.

And Shadowsight's lightbulb goes Ding!

The very last thing Ashfur does in TBC, when the jig is up and he's about to be killed by the Lights in the Mist and a bunch of Demons who have come to defend their home, is swallow a Founder-- Skystar.

He takes the level of a true god, and reaches a nearly undefeatable level of power. Instead of black water, he's so large, malicious, and has a gravitational pull so massive it starts destroying the afterlife. It shatters the purgatory (Meadow of Young Stars) into floating cosmic fragments, and Heaven and Hell are set to collide.

Shadowsight confronts Ashfur, politely explaining that he's, well... done a lot of thinking, and, he doesn't really want what he gave him. "You can, uh, have this back!"

And blasts the lightning from his scar right back at him, like a chain, holding the screeching eldrich horror in place. Every ally he's made, here in the DF, come down from StarClan, and as Lights in the Mist, jump to his side. They can't hold down Ashfur, but they can hold SHADOWSIGHT

While they're all supporting him, Bristlefrost sees the one chance to get rid of him, once and for all. A clear shot. She bolts, pounces, and SHOOTS right into Ashfur like a falling star, knocking them both off the edge of the heaven he destroyed, burning up in orbit with a monster a hundred times her size.

And after that, Shadowsight has to go home and live with this.

He gave up the very connection that made him so special, and now he has to go back to being a Cleric without StarClan.

but the other Clerics accept this. They have to. They were all complicit in the choices that allowed the Impostor to rise.

What Shadowsight learns is... everyone was part of this. From those who made the follies with him, to the supporters and rebels against the impostor, to those who helped him realize his worth, to Bristlefrost who ultimately killed Ashfur.

He is valuable because living is valuable.

Everyone, and everything, matters. All cats have a role to play, and he was never alone.

I want to close him out in BB!TBC on a tea scene that parallels the various points in his life. Others used to prepare his chamomile treatments FOR him, in careful doses, because it is a very serious medicine. Now, at the end, he's the one brewing it.

A fully fledged Cleric, who realizes he's never been alone. Cats who love him were around him the whole time, making his medicine, and they'll love him even after he's given up his powerful gift. So now he's at the stage in his life where HE can make that medicine, share his wisdom with others, and find fulfillment in the skills he's acquired over a hard life brightening.