#some of the fanart it's Obvious what it's meant to be. but some of it not so much

[orcelito]

maybe instead of checking the tags of every vash & knives fanart i see to make Sure it's in a platonic context, i should just block the tag they use for this shit lmao

[hardly-an-escape]

what's in a name? | Dream/Hob | 9300 words | rated E

this is my submission for @designtheendless's 3K commission giveaway: a Dreamling fic based on their fanart above!

tags: alternate universe - human, photographer Hob Gadling, artist Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, model Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, strangers to lovers, snowed in, only one bed, light dom/sub, oral sex, face fucking, anal fingering, anal sex, anonymous sex, Dream of the Endless is a horny little weasel, and Hob is no less of a horny little weasel, brief Princess Bride references, alcohol consumption, impulsive decision making, callous disregard for the geography of northern California, they go from 0-60 because they’re both nuts, neither of them are in a great place but they do make each other better rather than worse

Hob is on an ill-fated road trip through California. He’s making his way slowly down the coast toward Los Angeles when, trapped by a snowstorm in a small town near Mount Shasta, he meets a mysterious stranger in a diner. They share a night of anonymous passion – but when the sun rises, Hob finds that he can’t just leave the stranger behind…

this story developed partially from Picture Perfect, one of my Fluffbruary 2024 fills. I also incorporated some of designtheendless's other suggested image prompts, so do make sure you check their original post! and thank you so much for extending the deadline, it meant I had time to get my CHBB fic submitted before pivoting to finish this... and even so I'm still barely getting it done in time just because of who I am as a person :D

Hob leans forward over the steering wheel, brows furrowed as he peers through the driving snow at the street ahead. The windshield wipers are going like mad; he’s seen a plow or two out, but they seem to barely be making a dent, so traffic has slowed to a crawl. Which is, frankly, for the best, since the weather is bad enough that only a true nutter would be out in it at all.

Well… nobody’s ever accused Hob of being sane.

His GPS instructs him to take the next right and informs him that his destination will then be on his right. He can just make out the neon sign through the thick flakes: Townhouse Motel. “Vacancy,” it says below the old-timey script, blinking on and off. In the distance, the sun is just beginning to settle behind some mountains that he’s sure would be beautiful if they weren’t hidden behind such inclement weather.

He pulls in the driveway. The lot is nearly empty, so he parks right next to the office door and jams his winter cap on his head before hurrying through the flurries.

The bored teenager behind the front desk barely looks up from the reality show playing on her tablet as she runs Hob’s credit card and gives him his door key – an actual, physical key. Room 1389. He decides it’s not worth it to ask why the room number has four digits when the motel has maybe a dozen rooms total.

He does ask if there’s somewhere nearby to get a bite to eat and a drink.

“There’s a diner across the street and down a block,” the teenager says, “but they don’t serve booze.” Then, finally looking up, perhaps seeing the bags under his eyes and his generally downtrodden demeanor, she relents. “There’s a liquor store about two blocks past that. You can bring stuff back to your room, I guess. It’s not like anybody is going to ask questions around here.”

That, Hob thinks as he heads back outside and moves his rental car a little closer to his door, is obvious. There’s a general air of neglect clinging to the motel, and indeed to the whole street, from what he can see: the buildings are a little more weatherbeaten than can be plausibly explained by a cute vintage aesthetic, and at least one storefront seems to be permanently boarded up. The recession has clearly hit Northern California just as hard as it has the rest of the United States.

What a time to be playing tourist. What a time to be – well, he won’t think about that right now.

His room is clean, at least. Someone, at some point in time, has made a half-hearted attempt to decorate it with a seaside theme. The bedlinens are various shades of blue, rather than your typical beigey-white. There’s an unfortunate painting of a mermaid hanging over the outdated television, and a slightly less unfortunate painting of a lighthouse above the bed. The bathroom wallpaper has little seashells on it.

Hob leaves his camera bag on the desk and his duffel on the end of the bed, grabs his wallet, turns his collar up against the cold, and heads back out into the snowy evening.

The diner is, as promised, only a short walk down the street, but Hob is shivering by the time he gets there. The wind cuts right through him – silly British man that he is, he thought California would be warm, even in winter. He hadn’t really reckoned with unpredictable mountain weather, or with the cold front that was chasing him down through the southern end of the Cascades. The weatherman on the radio had been calling it “freakish.”

A little bell tinkles merrily when he pushes open the door. A waitress calls out a greeting, tells him to sit wherever he likes and she’ll be right with him. There’s only one other person in the diner, a slender man dressed all in black who is hunched over a cup of coffee at the counter. He glances up and immediately back down as Hob stomps the snow off his boots and takes an empty booth far enough away from the front door that he won’t feel the rush of cold air if anyone else comes in.

The waitress bustles over, bringing him a cup of coffee without even asking. Hob wraps his fingers around it gratefully. He doesn’t normally drink coffee this late, but it’s been the kind of day that calls for it: so cold, so uncomfortable and distressing, that the sturdy ceramic mug is exactly what he wants. The bitter note of slightly burnt coffee is tempered by the cheap, artificially flavored vanilla creamer he only ever uses at this kind of greasy spoon diner. He breathes deep and feels something inside him start to thaw.

When the waitress comes back with a menu, he warms up even more. She is middle-aged and comfortable, nice and no-nonsense, the sort of person with an indeterminate American accent who could have come from anywhere: Illinois, or Florida, or five minutes down the road. She recommends the olive burger with fries, and a side of fried pickles, because they’re the best in the county, and then her excitement simply bubbles over.

“I’m just so darn tickled to have two Brits here in the same night!” she enthuses. “Oh gosh, is that okay? Can I call you Brits or is that rude?”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Hob laughs. “Two of us, eh? That is a coincidence.”

“I know, right? Okay hon, lemme just get your order in and I’ll be back to warm up your coffee in a sec.”

She bustles away again, and Hob looks curiously at the man at the counter. He must have heard her comment, but he hasn’t turned around, or indeed acknowledged Hob in any way since he came in. He shrugs mentally and turns away to look out the window at the thickly swirling snow. It’s dark enough now that streetlights have come on, casting cones of light in which the flakes dance like a very slow sodium-tinted tornado.

He wishes he had a book. Or a crossword puzzle, or one of those packets of crayons they give to kids at restaurants. Something to keep his hands occupied and his mind off of everything that was threatening to consume it, off of the last few days, off of her –

Then the man from the counter slides into the booth across from him.

“Hello,” Hob says.

“Hello,” the stranger says. His voice is surprisingly deep and resonant, coming from his slim frame, and he looks to be in his late twenties, perhaps a few years younger than Hob. He is very pale. His dark hair is sticking up rather wildly and his eyes are a cold, clear blue that reminds Hob of the way the sky had looked this morning, before the clouds had descended.

“Who are you, then? Aside from a fellow Brit?” asks Hob.

“No one of consequence.” He’s lugging around a small backpack, which now rests on the bench beside him.

“I must know,” Hob says in a very bad Inigo Montoya accent.

“Get used to disappointment,” the stranger says with a smirk, and Hob laughs.

“Oh, we’re going to get along just fine,” he says, holding his hand out across the table. “My name’s Hob, yes that’s my real name, and yes, it is a long story.”

The stranger shakes his hand briefly. His palm is warm from cupping his coffee cup, but the tips of his fingers are cold. “Pleased to meet you, Hob.”

“And do you have a name, stranger?”

“I do. Several, in fact.”

“Any of them for public consumption?”

The stranger shrugs. “Will you forgive me if I maintain a certain level of mystery?”

Hob shrugs too. “That’s your lookout, mate. No skin off my nose.”

They chat. About the weather, and how odd it is, and how different to England. About books – the stranger appears to be a voracious reader, and Hob had loaded up an old iPod with audiobooks in preparation for a lot of driving, which sparks a lively debate on the merits of printed books vs reading aloud. In the midst of this, Hob’s food arrives, and he is derailed momentarily from the conversation by an overwhelming need to unhinge his jaw and stuff as many chips into his gob as humanly possible. The stranger watches in amusement.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Hob says, muffled by his burger. “Been driving pretty much all day and I didn’t really want to stop, so…”

He’s suddenly self-conscious, very aware that the man sitting across from him is slender and willowy and dressed all in black, and that he himself is very much… not that. Dressed for comfort and warmth in slightly baggy jeans and a flannel shirt and his puffy jacket balled up on the bench beside him. But the stranger seems unbothered, simply smiling slightly and snagging a fried pickle off the plate between them, which Hob had invited him to share moments after it had arrived.

They are good; crispy and salty and uniquely American. Hob is certainly prepared to believe they’re the best in the county.

“So are you staying here in town, or is that shrouded in mystery as well?” he asks, once he’s slowed down a bit.

“I’ve been staying in a cabin up the mountain, a little way out of town. With my family.” He said the word family as though it is faintly dirty. “One of my siblings thought it would be good for us to get away together. But I have found it… trying.”

“Up the mountain, eh? Are you going to be able to get back in this?”

Hob tips his head toward the window. It is very dark now, and the snow is falling more thickly and wildly than ever. A crease appears between the stranger’s eyebrows.

“To be honest, I had not thought that far ahead.”

“Do you have much experience driving in the snow?”

To Hob’s surprise, the stranger actually blushes, just a gentle stain of pink across his cheekbones. “I… walked.”

“You walked?”

The waitress, stopping by the table to warm up their coffees, echos Hob’s surprise.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “In this? How are you fixing to get home?”

“I was planning to walk back,” the stranger says with some asperity. “But I admit I was not anticipating this kind of weather.”

“Let me check on the roads for you,” the waitress says kindly. “Which cabin did you say you’re at? My brother-in-law lives up that way, I’ll give him a call. I’m sure we can find you a ride.”

She goes back behind the counter and picks up the phone.

“I’m happy to give you a ride,” Hob says quietly. “If she thinks it’s safe.”

“You do not have to do that.”

“‘S okay. I want to.”

“Bill? It’s Jan. I have a question for you,” says the waitress.

Hob realizes, suddenly and with some surprise, that it is quite true, that he is not just being polite: he does want to help this mysterious stranger, who talks like a 19th-century Byronic hero and dresses like a college goth. His stomach is doing the tiniest little swoop every time they make eye contact, and he doesn’t want it to stop.

The waitress calls over to him.

“You got four wheel drive, hon?”

Hob thinks about the little Honda Civic in the motel parking lot. Thinks about mountain roads and snow. Shakes his head no.

Scraps of the waitress’s conversation float across the diner and Hob takes another bite of his burger.

“– well they’re foreign, Bill, they don’t –”

He snickers just a little; can’t help himself, really, because the waitress is just so kind and helpful and also clearly more than a little bit befuddled by their presence in her diner. These two Brits, total strangers, so unalike one another – and yet here they are, sharing a booth and a plate of fried pickles, five thousand miles and change away from home. He exchanges a look of camaraderie with the stranger and eats some more chips. They’re good too.

“– and tomorrow? What’s the overnight –”

After another minute or two the waitress thanks her brother-in-law and hangs up the phone. Her face is serious when she comes back to their table.

“Well, boys,” she says, “I don’t think anyone is going anywhere tonight. Bill says it’s pretty bad up there, and only getting worse. The plows aren’t even going out yet on account of the snow’s still coming down so hard, it doesn’t make sense to try and clear anything. You going to be able to find a place to stay?” she asks the stranger.

He looks at Hob. “Did you mention a motel?”

“Yeah, the Townhouse?” Hob says, and the waitress nods along. “I don’t know for sure if there are rooms available, but it didn’t look like the parking was full.”

“Probably not, this time of year,” interjects the waitress. “It’s a fine place, and Paulie can certainly use the business. I’ll bring your checks by in a minute, guys.”

She leaves them again. Her sensible sneakers squeak against the floor tiles as she walks.

“Thank you again for your offer of a ride,” the stranger says quietly. “That was very kind of you.”

“Course. I’m just sorry you won’t be able to get home tonight,” Hob says.

“It is my own fault. I should not have behaved so impulsively. But my siblings…” The man frowns. “As I said, they can be difficult. I would have done something regrettable, had I remained in the house.”

Hob waves a hand. “Ah, it happens to the best of us. Especially around family. You should hear some of the fights I’ve had with my sister, we can scream the paint off the walls when we get going.”

“Indeed,” the man says darkly.

“I’m glad you did come to town, though. It’s been kind of nice,” Hob says tentatively. “Having someone to talk to tonight.”

“Indeed,” his stranger repeats. But this time one corner of his mouth lifts in a tiny smile. “It seems to have worked out in my favor.”

Hob smiles back. “So, are you really not going to tell me your name?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun, eh?” Hob glances down at his own hands, folded on the table, back at the stranger. “Is that what this is?”

The stranger smirks. He leans forward and plucks another fried pickle from the plate. He opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue just a little bit farther than necessary to pop the slice into his mouth. He chews, and smirks some more, and gives Hob an unmistakable up-and-down appraising glance, and underneath the table he presses one ankle against Hob’s instep.

Oh. Hob feels a surprising but not unfamiliar spike of arousal in his gut. So that’s where this is heading – has been heading, since he pushed open the door and the stranger had glanced up at him. Had he blushed, when his eyes met Hob’s? Or is he applying more detail to that brief interaction after the fact, now that he thinks he knows what his stranger is thinking?

And when had the man become his stranger?

“I see,” he says, and presses back against the bony ankle under the table.

Ten minutes later, they’ve settled their bills – his stranger had apparently eaten a club sandwich before Hob had arrived, and he’s weirdly relieved that the man has consumed something more substantial than coffee this evening – and are gearing up to head back into the cold. Hob is zipping up his coat when he realizes the other man appears to have only a thick black hoodie and a knit beanie (also black, of course). He glances out the window, where it’s still snowing pretty hard, and raises an eyebrow.

“You going to be okay in just that?”

“You said it is only a couple of blocks? I will be fine. I tend not to feel the cold. And,” he adds defensively, “when I originally walked down the weather was not quite so… inclement.”

“If you say so,” Hob says as he opens the door. The waitress calls out a good night and he waves to her over his stranger’s shoulder. Wonders, just for a moment, what she thinks of the fact that they’re leaving together, or if she will ever think of them again at all. They step out into the snowy evening. “The girl at the motel said there’s a liquor store down the street. Mind detouring there? I was thinking of picking up some whiskey, or something. Something to keep a man warm.”

The man chuckles and they head down the street. It’s not until they’re away from the diner windows that he takes Hob by the elbow and gently draws him just outside the circle of a street lamp.

“Surely,” he says, voice low, stepping into Hob’s space, “there are many ways for a man to… keep warm.”

And he kisses him.

His lips are warm and dry, a little chapped. It’s a simple kiss, a chaste one, just their lips touching and the barest pressure of the stranger’s belly and chest pressed against Hob’s, swathed in layers of winter gear. It lasts for a heartbeat, two, and then the man steps back with a hum of satisfaction.

“Oh?” says Hob, giddily. “It’s like that, is it?”

“Obviously,” responds his stranger.

“Well, I don’t know, mate,” says Hob as they make their way down the street. He resists the urge to link their arms together. “Maybe you play footsie with every guy you meet in random diners in Northern California.”

“Perhaps.”

The liquor store is a brief respite from the wind and the snow. Hob selects a mid-range bottle of whiskey and they trudge back to his motel room. The snowflakes and the streetlights and the swirling wind make everything feel more than a little bit surreal, like something out of a dream or a fairy tale. The two of them could be adventurers, explorers, wading through an arctic wasteland in search of shelter. The mountain looms behind them, dark and mysterious, like a great castle or some monstrous beast.

“Do you mind if I take a shower?” asks his stranger, kicking off his boots dropping his backpack by the desk. “I’m afraid I did get rather sweaty, hiking down earlier. I wouldn’t mind cleaning up.” His gaze, beneath his long eyelashes, feels heavy and significant.

“Go right ahead.” Hob gestures toward the bathroom. “I’m just going to nip down to the lobby and get a bit of ice.” He retrieves the ice bucket from the desk, brushing close to his stranger as he does. The brief contact jolts him back to the real world. They’re not in the arctic waste; this handsome, ethereal man is here, in his motel room. He is pulling off his somewhat sodden hoodie and draping it over the back of the chair, and sniffing dubiously at the sweater he wears underneath it. He is real.

Hob waits until he hears the shower turn on to slip out the door.

Although he has his moments of cluelessness, Hob is not a stupid man. He knows where this is going. He recognizes the signs, the coy little dance they’ve been doing around each other for the past two hours, and no, he’s not a stupid man, but if he were a better one he might be able to resist the temptation of falling into bed with a beautiful stranger who won’t even share his name.

But there’s something about this man. Hob wants him. Already can’t resist him. Wants to wrap him up and keep him warm and kiss his collarbones and, yes, wants to fuck him, wants to feel him shudder and moan and wants to watch his cheeks flush and his head fall back in ecstasy. He hasn’t felt like this for a long, long time, and now it’s come out of nowhere to slam into him and hook into his gut, this wanting.

He throws a few scoops of ice from the machine in the motel lobby into the bucket and goes back to the room.

He’s kicked off his boots, unwrapped one of the shitty plastic cups, and poured himself a couple fingers of whiskey by the time he hears the shower shut off. There’s the usual shuffling noise of towels, a brief blast of the cheap hair dryer mounted to the wall. Then the door opens and the stranger emerges, and Hob is slammed from the real world right back into a surreal dream.

The man is even more beautiful without his clothes on: Hob would compare him to an elf or a fairy prince, but he’s too busy choking slightly on the spit that’s suddenly flooding his mouth at the sight of long, slim limbs, a narrow waist, and a temptingly well-defined Adonis belt that disappears under the cheap motel towel wound around his hips.

There’s a long moment of silent eye contact. Hob’s leaning up against the desk, cup cradled in one hand. His face heats as he watches his stranger’s eyes travel slowly down the length of his body and back up, pursing his lips slightly. His mouth is very pink, with the kind of full bottom lip that’s made for nibbling on, and the rest of his skin is as pale and smooth as… well, as snow, with just a touch of redness from the heat of the shower spreading across his chest.

Hob downs half of his whiskey without even thinking about it. He can’t look away. He can’t think, can’t even blink. He’s afraid that if he does, this vision will disappear and it’ll just be him, alone, a saddish man alone in a motel room with a bottle of booze and a bag of expensive camera equipment, and then who knows what will happen?

His stranger gives him one of those tiny half-smiles, suggestive, not quite a leer, and stalks across the room toward him.

He widens his legs and his stranger steps in to stand between his feet. He takes Hob’s drink out of his hand and tosses back the last swallow of whiskey before setting the plastic cup aside. Then he hooks one finger into the collar of Hob’s flannel shirt and pulls him into a kiss. His mouth is a study in contrasts: warm from the whiskey and cool from the ice, soft tongue and sharp teeth. They sink briefly, gently, into Hob’s bottom lip, and Hob pulls the man close against his chest and returns the favor.

The kiss is turning wet and messy when the man pulls back far enough to start fumbling with Hob’s shirt buttons. He’s pulled the tails of the shirt out of Hob’s jeans and has it about halfway unbuttoned when a phone starts ringing.

It’s not the room phone – it’s coming from a pocket of the man’s backpack.

“Ignore it,” he mumbles into Hob’s neck. “We are busy.”

The phone rings three times; four times. The stranger has finished with Hob’s shirt and is pulling the tee beneath it out of the waistband of his jeans by the time it finally stops.

His fingers are toying with Hob’s belt buckle and ghosting over the seam of his fly when it rings again.

The stranger groans audibly.

“Do you think,” Hob says with the carefully deliberate cadence of the very turned on, “that your family might be worried about you?”

“I do not care,” his stranger grumbles, and sinks gracefully to his knees.

Eventually the phone stops ringing again.

He’s worked Hob’s belt and fly open and is nuzzling into the opening of his jeans, nosing at the base of Hob’s cock through his underwear and Hob is panting, his stranger’s hot breath so close to where Hob wants him most – when the phone rings a third time.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” snarls the stranger, and stands.

He fishes a slightly battered-looking BlackBerry out of an outside pocket of his backpack and stabs at the call answer button.

“What.”

He turns away, so all Hob can see is the furious, stiff line of his stranger’s back. He can’t hear the other half of the conversation, and he doesn’t think he wants to; every fibre of the man’s body radiates anger and discomfort and perhaps a little bit of shame. Hob adjusts himself discreetly, rezips his jeans, and tiptoes over to sit down on the edge of the bed.

“Obviously I am alive. I am fine.” A pause. “I took a walk.” Another pause. “Yes. Yes, I know what time it is. No, I am assured that the roads were too bad to make it back to the cabin. I am in a motel room in…” He looks over to Hob. “What is the name of this place?”

Hob supplies the name of the motel, and that of the town as well, just for good measure. The man relays the information into the phone. There is another long pause.

“That is none of your business. Shut up. You have no idea what you’re talking about. And if you speak to me like that again I will hang up the phone.”

There is another, longer pause, during which the stranger’s face grows progressively redder. He is very deliberately not looking at Hob.

“No. I said no. I will arrange for my own transportation in the morning. I –”

The person on the other end of the phone must say something truly outrageous, because his strangers eyes bug out in a way that looks almost uncomfortable.

“Do the entirety of the known universe a favor and crawl back into whatever slime hole you emerged from and leave me alone,” he hisses. “Goodbye.”

Hob can’t quite muffle a snort at this crowning line. Siblings.

His stranger hangs up the phone with a vicious jab of a button and slams it down on the desk; then seems to reconsider, retrieves it, and shuts it off entirely before throwing it into his backpack. He sighs, a surprisingly tired sound.

“I will have another drink, if you don’t mind,” he says. “And then I would like it very much if you would fuck me. Please.”

Hob’s cock, which had been feeling distinctly neglected, gives a twitch.

“I think that can be arranged,” he says. “Are you –”

The stranger waves a dismissive hand. “I am quite sober enough to have sex with you. And I could easily afford my own room, if that’s a concern. I am here because I want to be.”

“Glad to hear it, but that actually isn’t what I was going to ask,” Hob says mildly.

“Oh,” the man says. A faint blush rises on his cheekbones. He scoops up the whiskey bottle and uncorks it, taking an unceremonious swig. The towel hangs dangerously low around his hips. “What were you going to ask?”

His stranger pauses with the whiskey bottle against his lips. Hob watches the long line of his neck work once, twice, as he swallows, and figures he may as well put his cards on the table.

“I was going to ask if latex condoms are okay. For when I fuck you into the mattress in a minute here.”

The man clears his throat. “Oh,” he says again. “Yes. Latex is fine.”

“Good. Anything you don’t like? Hard boundaries?”

He pauses. “I do not enjoy being choked. Or having my hands restrained in any way. But I like… I like it a little bit rough. It feels good. To be used.”

Hob leans back on one elbow. “Is that what you want me to do? Use you?”

“Yes.”

The word drops into the quiet room like a handful of snow might drop off a tree branch – soft and muffled and sending the same delicious shiver down Hob’s spine.

“I can do that.” Oh, yes. Hob can use this beautiful man, if he is offering himself up to be used. “C’mere, then.”

His stranger walks slowly across the room to where Hob is half-reclining on the bed, feet still planted on the floor. He kneels between Hob’s legs and runs his hands slowly up and down his thighs from knee to hip. “And you?” he asks. “Your boundaries?”

Hob considers. “I’m with you on choking, not a fan,” he says. “I’m not big on pain, generally, but I can give it to other people, if they need it.”

“Alright.” His hands are still rubbing up and down Hob’s thighs, a slow, hypnotizing rhythm. When he speaks again his voice is thick. “Would you consider the preliminary negotiations to be concluded now?”

“Don’t you have anything better to do with your mouth than spout off like a horny nineteenth century robber baron?” Hob counters.

His stranger smiles, a proper smile that crinkles the corners of his blue eyes, and unzips the fly of Hob’s jeans.

In short order he’s pulled them open and pushed Hob’s boxers down just enough that he can get his cock out. He’s not quite hard, not yet, but he gets there quickly between his stranger’s gentle, surprisingly soft hands and the way he immediately buries his nose in Hob’s pubic hair and breathes deeply as he looks up through his eyelashes.

Then he opens his mouth, and wraps his tongue around the head of Hob’s cock, and Hob’s brain makes a noise like radio static.

Oh, he is good at this. Unfairly good. Supernaturally good. He teases Hob for long, long minutes, working up and down his shaft with light touches of just his lips and tongue, ducking down now and then to mouth gently at his balls, until Hob is twitching and swearing and straining, perched on the edge of the bed. When he finally has mercy and takes Hob’s cock fully into his mouth, it is barely a relief. He is so wet, so hot, and he sinks down on Hob with no resistance, no trace of a gag reflex. Before he can stop himself, Hob’s hips jerk forward that final fraction, and suddenly his stranger’s nose is brushing his pubic bone and his throat is contracting around the head of Hob’s cock.

He’s expecting the man to pull back, to splutter in indignation, but instead he makes an encouraging noise and squeezes Hob’s thigh before folding his hands almost primly in his lap.

“Fuck,” Hob mutters. He makes an experimental shallow thrust into the tight, wet heat of his stranger’s mouth. “Really?”

His stranger can’t nod, not with Hob’s prick in his mouth, but he moans. Hob feels it vibrate all along the length of his shaft and has to stifle a whimper of his own. He sinks one hand into the soft riot of the man’s hair, still a little damp from the shower, and cradles the back of his skull. The bone feels sweet and finely formed in his hand.

“You want me to fuck your pretty face?” he asks, soft and just a tiny bit mean. “Yeah? That’s what your mouth is good for, isn’t it?”

He thrusts again, in and out, and the stranger’s eyes roll back a little in his head, so he does it again, and again. Soon he really is fucking his face, not too hard but deep, fingers tightening in his stranger’s hair as his eyes fall nearly shut, narrowing to crystalline blue crescents.

Hob pulls back briefly to let his stranger breathe. Runs his thumb along his bottom lip, dripping with spit, before he pushes back in. He doesn’t stop until he can feel the first tendrils of orgasm beckoning to him; but as tempting as it is to keep going, to empty himself into this perfect mouth, he’s made a promise. And Hob is a man of his word, so he pulls the man off his cock by the scruff of his neck. He makes an obscene noise as he goes, and another thing string of saliva dribbles from his puffy mouth. His eyes are slightly glassy as he looks up at Hob.

“Get up on the bed, baby,” Hob orders gently.

When the man stands up the towel is just barely clinging to his narrow hips, and his erection is stiff and straining against the terrycloth. He’s so hard, Hob thinks wonderingly, just from having Hob’s cock in his mouth for a few minutes, and his own prick throbs in sympathy.

“Hands and knees,” Hob says, and the man crawls up on the bed. The towel falls away as he goes, languid but obedient, so that he’s entirely naked when Hob positions himself behind him. The contrast between Hob’s clothes and the other man’s nudity is delicious – Hob’s rough denim against the man’s soft thighs, Hob’s hairy wrists poking out from worn flannel as he runs his fingernails along sharply elegant shoulder blades.

He allows himself one long, gentle caress, from the nape of his stranger’s neck down to the shallow dimples in the small of his back, before he grabs at the man’s buttocks and unceremoniously spreads him open.

His hole looks surprisingly loose and relaxed already. Hob runs the pad of one thumb over it.

“Were you prepping yourself in the shower?” he asks, delighted. He presses gently and the furl of muscle gives, just a little, pink and fluttering.

“Hng,” says his stranger, shuddering. “Yes. I thought – I thought about your hands. Oh. I liked the thought that you were just outside the door. While I had my fingers inside myself.”

“Impatient little minx,” Hob says fondly. He kisses one of the lovely knobs of his stranger’s spine and pinches his backside for good measure before pulling away. “Stay here.”

He has to dig down to the bottom of his duffel bag in order to find the box of condoms and the little travel sized bottle of lube. He’d felt a little self-conscious when he���d packed them back in his flat in London – like he was presuming something – but then again he had been preparing for a supposedly romantic road trip with his girlfriend.

He’s glad, now, that he has them.

His stranger has remained on his knees, pitched forward to rest on his elbows, face pressed into a pillow and cock hanging heavy between his legs.

“Good boy,” Hob praises, and runs his hand along the man’s flank. “Beautiful. Oh, darling, I’m going to make you feel so good. And then you’re going to make me feel so good, aren’t you? You already have,” Hob coos, drizzling lube directly onto his arsehole. “And I know you’re going to keep being a good boy for me, aren’t you?”

Before the man can answer, Hob slips a finger inside him, right up to the first knuckle. He’s rewarded with a whimper and the feeling of his stranger pushing back against him, silently begging for more.

And then not so silently. “More,” moans the stranger. “Fuck. More, please.”

Hob strokes his finger in and out, petting the velvet inside his stranger.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll get more.”

He tries to spend as much time torturing his stranger with his fingers as his stranger had spent torturing him with his mouth, but by the second finger he finds his resolve dissolving like so many snowflakes on warm skin. The man is making such wanton sounds, and his knees skid wider and wider on the slippery motel bedspread, opening him inexorably to Hob’s hungry eyes and questing hands.

“Oh. Oh,” he says. “Oh, yes, fuck,” he moans. No more well-crafted phrases or erudite words; the only thing dropping from that perfect mouth are noises, guttural and breathy by turns, only half-muffled by the pillow his face is smashed into.

“Please,” he begs, “please, in me, I – please, I need –”

Hob obliges.

He’s pretty sure he’s never been harder in his life as he shoves his jeans down around his thighs and rolls the condom on. He has to do it one-handed, clumsily, because some frantic corner of his brain is convinced that if he lets go of the stranger’s hip then the man will disappear, between one blink and the next, and this whole night will turn out to have been some snowblind fever dream.

But his stranger stays where Hob has put him, desperate and writhing, begging for Hob’s cock, and when he finally pins the man down to the mattress and pushes into him, that first hard thrust is enough to silence both of them.

The room is utterly still for a heartbeat, and then another, and then one more, until Hob pulls out in order to thrust in again and his stranger wails and then Hob is fucking into him in earnest, fucking him hard, until the sound of their skin slapping together almost drowns out the sounds his stranger is making beneath him.

Almost.

His stranger moans and pants, and Hob answers him, thrust for thrust and moan for moan, Yes and Ah and Christ and Fuck, fuck me, use me, yes. He grips his stranger by the hips, so hard that his fingers leave little white divots behind when he shifts his grip, so hard that he worries he might leave bruises, and still the man pushes back against him and begs for more.

He comes, when he finally comes, untouched, rutting gracelessly against the mattress. Hob stills, grits his teeth, not wanting to overwhelm the other man as he seizes in pleasure, but his stranger continues to move against him, if anything even more desperate, even in the throes of orgasm.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps, “don’t, oh God, fuck me through it, don’t stop –”

So Hob hauls him up and pushes him down, one hand on his waist and one shoving his chest down into the mattress as the man’s hands scrabble at the sheets and he sobs and Hob pistons into him until he empties himself, until his prick is oversensitive and his stranger is twitching around and beneath him, and the room is finally quiet.

Then Hob takes the condom off, knots it and tosses it towards the wastebasket. He rolls them both away from the wet spot with only middling success, but he’s too tired to care. He shucks the rest of his clothes off. He is boneless and spent, and his stranger is inserting himself relentlessly into Hob’s personal space. They lie there for a long, long moment, sweaty and panting, until their breathing starts to even out and the desperate closeness has receded into normal cuddling. Hob presses a kiss to his stranger’s sweaty temple and marvels at his luck.

“I realize I neglected to ask you why you find yourself in Northern California,” his stranger says, tucked against Hob’s side, voice drowsy and hoarse. “Do you care to share?”

“It’s a long story,” Hob says. “I was – well, I am – on a road trip. With my, ah. With my girlfriend. Well. Ex-girlfriend, now. Actually.”

His stranger tenses slightly, and Hob doesn’t blame him; he knows how it must sound. “It sounds like there is a story there?” the man says, almost tentative.

“Yeah, we… we came over together, about two weeks ago. We flew into Seattle, were planning this whole big trip, right down the coast and all the way to Los Angeles. See the redwoods, do some wine tastings, the whole bit. I’m a photographer, I was thinking I could turn the whole trip into a photo essay, maybe even a book.” He sighs. “Then she heard about this yoga retreat, ashram sort of place. Bit culty, I don’t really go in for all that, but she absolutely had to check it out, so we did. Two days later, out of the blue, she tells me our chakras are misaligned and gives me the boot. Turns out Guru Todd Thingummy, who ran the retreat center, was very aligned with her chakras. As well as other, less… metaphysical things.”

There’s a sound from the vicinity of Hob’s armpit that he realizes with delight is a snort. The snort blossoms into a chuckle, and then his stranger is laughing, a frankly horrible honking sort of laugh, shaking in Hob’s arms with it, and Hob laughs along.

“I’m sorry,” his stranger gasps. “I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t laugh at you. It’s just… Guru Todd.”

“I know!” Hob snickers. “You can picture him, right? White boy dreadlocks and a fucking… shell necklace. Utter tosser.”

“I feel like I’ve probably met someone almost exactly like him, truly.” Eventually his stranger’s horrible laugh subsides. He shifts against Hob, playing idly with his chest hair, curling it around one finger. “In a way, I am also escaping a recent ex. She was the first person I dated after some… difficult experiences I had about a year ago. But in the end I was far more invested in the relationship than she, and she became. Uncomfortable. With my ardor.”

“She’s a bloody idiot then,” Hob says automatically, and his stranger looks up, startled.

“Do you think so?”

Hob briefly considers backpedaling. Don’t come off like a madman, he thinks to himself. Not when he’s finally talking to you. But there’s no hope for him. “Well, yeah. I mean, I’d say your ardor is my favorite thing about you so far.” He lets one hand drift down and gives his stranger’s arse a cheeky squeeze, and is rewarded with a squeak and another snort.

“You are kind to say so,” the man says, and interrupts himself with a yawn.

“It’s true. I… I’m really glad I met you,” Hob says honestly. Too honestly. He can’t help himself; the man is just so beautiful, mouth kissed red and limbs loose, fucked out and soft everywhere he’d been hard and prickly before.

Hob still doesn’t know his name.

“I’m glad I met you, too,” the man says softly.

Hob snuggles them both down into the lumpy motel pillows and pulls the blanket up firmly around their shoulders. The wind blows outside, he reaches up to switch off the lamp, and they fall asleep.

He wakes in the night and stumbles to the bathroom to take a piss. When he comes back, his stranger has starfished out and is taking up a full two-thirds of the bed, sleeping like a stone. Hob manages to reinsert himself into the remaining third and then simply lies there for a long few minutes, looking at the other man.

The skies must have cleared, at least a little, because there’s a few strips of moonlight filtering through the blinds. The pale light turns his stranger into marble, a work of art; he practically glows against the blue sheets. Hob’s fingers itch for his camera.

“You’re going to fuck me up,” he whispers. “I’m going to wake up next to you and never want to leave, and it’s going to fuck me up so bad.”

The sleeping man does not respond, of course; doesn’t even stir. Hob lies there, and gazes at him, until he slips back into sleep himself.

When he wakes again it’s fully morning. The sun is that peculiar thin shade of blue that you get on very cold mornings, but when Hob peeks out the window, the sky is clear and the snowplows have clearly been out making the rounds. He tries to tamp down a sudden feeling of disappointment.

He gets a drink of water, and when he returns to bed his stranger is stirring. First one blue eye opens, then the other.

“Morning,” Hob says.

The man hums and stretches luxuriously, rolling from his belly to his back. The sheets fall down around his hips, revealing one elegant hipbone and a tempting glimpse of dark curls. His pale skin practically glows against the blue sheets in the morning light.

“Enjoying the view?” his stranger asks, and his voice is rough with sleep and slightly hoarse.

“You could say that,” Hob says. He puts one knee on the bed, reaches out to run a hand lightly down the long, lean line of the man’s thigh. “God, you’re… you are so beautiful.”

“Come here to me,” the man says, beckoning to Hob.

Hob ducks his head and kisses up the ladder of the man’s ribs, takes one pert nipple gently between his teeth.

“Can I take your picture?” he says suddenly. “Not in a creepy way. I can even keep your face out of it if you like, I just… there’s something about you, in this light.”

“I don’t mind,” the man says.

Hob’s heart leaps.

A few minutes later, he’s gotten his camera out and adjusted. The room is so quiet, so still, that each click of the shutter sounds almost sacrilegious. He shoots in black and white. He thinks the sheets will show dark, almost black, and the man’s skin will show light and luminous against them. His stranger poses like a dream, languid and biddable, moving here and there on the bed, wherever Hob arranges him.

“You’ve done this before,” Hob accuses. He’s kneeling above the other man, shooting straight down, and his stranger has one arm thrown over his face so only one eye is visible. “Posed, I mean. You know how to move for a camera.”

“I have,” the stranger admits. “Mostly for life drawing classes, though I imagine the principle is more or less the same.”

“Incredible. Are you an artist, then?”

“I suppose.”

Hob tugs the sheet a little lower, so that it’s just barely covering the stranger’s prick, which has plumped up a little – whether from the attention of Hob himself or of the camera, he’s not sure, but it’s one of the sexiest things Hob’s ever seen. The neat patch of dark hair blending into the dark sheet. The gentle swell beneath it. His mouth waters.

“You suppose?”

“I find it difficult to call myself an artist. To claim that title. But I make art. If that is the same thing.”

“Hmm. I reckon so.”

Hob pulls the sheet another fraction of an inch lower. He can feel himself getting distracted. The itch he’d felt to photograph the beautiful stranger, now mostly satisfied, has transformed into an altogether different kind of impulse. He takes one more shot, barely paying attention to the framing. Catches himself licking his lips.

“Hob.”

“Yeah?”

“Put the camera down.”

He hastens to obey.

He’d pulled his boxers back on at some point last night, but they do little to hide his arousal as he slides under the sheets and slots himself in behind his stranger, rubbing his nose in the riotous bedhead and kissing his neck as the man tilts his head to one side to give him better access.

“I like how you say my name,” Hob murmurs. He grinds against his stranger’s narrow arse and reaches around to make a loose fist around his hardening cock. “You’re really not going to tell me yours, are you?”

“Mine?”

“Your name.”

“I –” The man’s breath hitches as Hob tightens his grip, stroking slowly up and down. “I haven’t – decided yet.”

“Well,” Hob says against the smooth skin between his ear and his shoulder. “Let me know what you decide.”

They writhe together under the sheets for a few minutes, until they’re both fully hard, until Hob’s chest is slightly tacky with sweat where it’s rubbing against the stranger’s sharp shoulder blades. He’s grunting, underwear pulled down, making quick little thrusts in the crease of the other man’s thigh, sticky and warm and so good.

“Fuck me again,” his stranger says. “Please.”

“Don’t be a madman,” Hob chides. “You’ll be so sore.”

But he doesn’t say no. And he slides a finger between the man’s arse cheeks and pets over his hole, still a little loose from the night before.

The stranger twists his neck around to look Hob in the eye. “I don’t care. I want you,” he says. “I want to feel it.”

And Hob tries his best to be a good person, he really does, but when confronted with this bald-faced desire he is only, after all, a man. So he mumbles Fuck, okay, yeah, okay against his stranger’s shoulder, and tears himself away to retrieve the lube and a condom. He fingers him open, as slowly and as carefully as he can bring himself to do it, and rolls the condom on, and he fucks him again. Face to face, this time; one knee hooked over his elbow, and long arms clinging to him like a drowning man, and panting, open-mouthed kisses that are as much simply breathing the other’s breath as they are real kisses.

The stranger comes first, his beautiful face screwed up in ecstasy, and Hob follows him over the edge mere seconds later.

The other man falls back into a doze almost immediately, drifting off as soon as Hob has disposed of the condom and wiped them down with a handful of tissues, but Hob is buzzing with too much energy to lie back down. He cleans himself up, splashing water on his face and brushing his teeth quickly, before dressing quietly and creeping down to the motel lobby to look for breakfast.

There’s a coffee machine, a few muffins – prepackaged, not fresh – and a rather sad fruit bowl with some mealy-looking apples. He assembles what he can and shoves some creamers and sugar packets in his jacket pocket. He asks the bored teenager at the front desk (a different one than the night before, although bearing a distinct family resemblance) about the weather report, and learns that although it’s supposed to stay cold, no more precipitation is in the forecast. Then he goes back to the room.

His stranger stirs again at the rush of cold air when Hob lets himself back into the room.

“I come bearing provisions,” he says, setting the coffees on the bedside table and dropping the rest of his meager bounty in the man’s lap.

“Foraging for our survival?” he asks dryly.

“Something like that. It’s slim pickings out there, I’m afraid. But hey –” he picks up a muffin and wiggles it “– chocolate chip!”

His stranger snorts and mutters something about being spoiled.

Hob is very careful not to say anything about how he’d like to spoil this man very much, actually, for the foreseeable future and possibly beyond that, because Hob has so longed for someone to care for, and because this man so obviously needs it. Hob eats his muffin, and very carefully does not say anything reckless or emotional.

They finish their motel snacks, and drink their coffees (Hob’s with a little creamer and one sugar; the stranger’s with no cream and an absurd amount of sugar). And eventually Hob broaches the subject that’s obviously hovering between them.

“So,” he says. “What do you want to do now? I’m still up to give you a ride to your cabin, if that’s what you want. The roads are supposed to be cleared by now.”

“I suppose I should,” the stranger says, fiddling with his styrofoam cup, not meeting Hob’s eyes. “I did tell my sibling that I would return in the morning.”

“Okay.” Hob clears his throat. “Alright then. Whenever you’re ready.”

It takes them another hour to leave the room. Hob showers, and then his stranger decides he needs to rinse off as well, and then there’s a frustrating search for car keys that turn out to have been kicked or dropped halfway under a bedside table at some point the night before.

Then the stranger stops Hob in the doorway with a hand on his elbow and kisses him, long and slow and wordless, before they step out into the brilliant snowy sparkle of the late morning.

The drive is very quiet. The stranger directs Hob out of town and along a rather steep road that winds up the thickly forested mountainside. It’s certainly not a road that Hob would have wanted to drive in last night’s weather, and even with clear skies and plowed roads he takes it slow, acutely aware of the grip of the rental car’s tires on the snowy highway.

Only one time does the stranger wince and shift uncomfortably when Hob cannot avoid a bump in the road. Hob smiles, and swallows his smile, and deliberately wrenches his mind away from the vivid memories of just why his stranger might be wincing and shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

His stranger is silent, except for when he briefly tells Hob when and where to turn. The farther they drive up the mountain, the stiffer he becomes, until he’s gripping the seat with white knuckles and his mouth is one firm line.

Hob doesn’t think it’s the wintry roads that are making him so tense.

They pull over, eventually, at the base of a long driveway. Through the trees Hob can see a large house – not really a cabin by any stretch of the imagination, but built of logs, and with a wisp of woodsmoke floating up from a picturesque brick chimney. They both gaze up at it through the trees. Hob puts the car in park but doesn’t turn it off.

“Well, here we are,” he says.

“Indeed,” his stranger says, and his voice sounds tense and slightly strangled. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Hob waits for him to open the door and walk away.

The man does not move.

A minute stretches by, and another, and another, and still his stranger has not opened the car door.

Hob dares to hope.

“Come with me,” he says suddenly.

His stranger looks up, startled.

“I mean it. Come with me. Go get your stuff and we’ll just. Drive away. Go down the coast, find somewhere it’s actually warm. Or don’t even get your stuff,” he adds hurriedly, aware that his voice is sounding increasingly unhinged. “Say the word and I’ll just turn the car around. We’ll go. Anywhere you want, just… come with me.”

The man looks at Hob with an unreadable expression for a long moment. “You know nothing about me,” he says finally.

“I know I like you. A lot,” Hob says. “I know last night was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time, maybe one of the best nights of my whole life. I know I’d regret it if I didn’t at least ask. So, I’m asking. Come with me.”

“I haven’t even told you my name,” says his stranger. “I could be a serial killer.”

“You could be, yeah. But I don’t think you are. I think… I think you just want someone to want you.” Hob reaches across the gear shift and briefly touches his stranger on the cheek. The man’s eyes flutter closed and Hob doesn’t think he’s imagining the way he leans ever-so-slightly into the gentle touch before he looks down. “I want you.”

There’s another long silence, punctuated only by an occasional call from the chickadees flitting through the trees.

“My name is Morpheus,” he says to his hands, clenched in his lap. “But some people call me Dream. People – people close to me. Call me Dream.”

Hob smiles. “Can I call you Dream, then?”

Dream nods. “Let’s go,” he says. Hob’s smile widens.

“Want to get anything from inside?” he asks.

“No. I think not,” Dream says. All of a sudden it’s like the tight strings of his body are loosened: he leans back in his seat, crosses his ankles, looking relaxed for the first time since they’d gotten out of bed. He lolls his head to one side and peeks at Hob and his face looks fey and happy in the afternoon light. “I believe I have everything I need for now.”

Happiness wells up in Hob’s chest, a rushing feeling like a mountain spring swollen by melting snow. He puts the car in gear and reaches over to take Dream’s hand.

“Right then,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Read on AO3 >>>

[thebandghostofficial]

[MESSAGE FROM THE CLERGY]

An important (and overwinded) announcement regarding this blog below the cut.

Hello everyone! This is Rawkin Ghoul/ Tumblr Ghoul/ Tumblrina/ Soda/ etc etc.

First thing’s first: no, this blog is not an official Ghost social media account.

I started this blog in late 2022 when ghost-official started blowing up (I do not believe this one to be real either, and honestly I won’t believe they have a Tumblr until it is linked on their official website) and thought, “wow, I could make a better Ghost blog than that. One that’s way better organized and actually advertises properly for them, and posts regularly!” So I did.

Originally it was meant as just that, a little joke between some friends, and wasn’t meant to really get farther than that. But then I thought, Ghost does have a lot of fans on Tumblr- a lot of exquisitely talented and devoted fans. Maybe I can kinda “roleplay” it for a while, build almost a bit of a portfolio, and then either offer the blog to management or offer to run it for them officially, for fun, if they were interested.

More time passes and more people followed. I thought “xofficial” as a username was a common enough joke/ gimmick that people would realize it wasn’t for real (and in fact, when I first searched the URL, I found that this username was once in use years ago! Sorry, previous owner), especially after posting that April Fools joke post- this was wrong of me to assume. There are a lot of roleplay/ joke “official” Ghost accounts all over the web but I failed to really properly disclaim that I was one of them.

I of course don’t plan to reach out to Ghost anymore and haven’t for some time, for multiple reasons including Tumblr just not being a good website for advertising. But another one is I got pretty loose on here. Tumblr is so different from Twitter and Insta and all that- you guys (and myself! I go here too) don’t want to have someone sell something to you- but you do love interaction and jokes and solving things together.

I think we can all admit it- when Ghost is dormant, the fans can get bored and even agitated, and can start to have a go at eachother. I’m certainly not guiltless there either. I wouldn’t say I’m notorious or even particularly well known in general but I’ve gotten into drama here and there. I figured the blog would be a fun way not just to distract the community, but really engage with it. The blog passed 5k a month or so ago and I started thinking, we could do something really cool with it. Smaller events like fanart contests and zines. But what if we did more? Organizing pre-ritual meetups. Larger community projects like fan-made music videos. ARG. Maybe even a short video game- there are so many incredibly skilled and hard-working Ghost fans and I wanted to try to bring them together because I think our love for Ghost, for whatever reason we love them, screams so loud and everyone deserves recognition (also a reason I started Fanart Friday as a regular thing).

You guys know I do my best to keep up with your tagging and what you’re saying and everything and I’ve seen the people pointing out the blog isn’t real from the beginning- I didn’t want to address it directly at first because I thought if nothing else people enjoyed the mystery.

But, more lately there’s been more and more people who are agitated, disappointed, and even a little scared to hear that this blog is not official.

I want to offer my very sincere apologies to people who I made feel that way. I should have made it obvious sooner- I know so well that there are a lot of very young Ghost fans especially who wouldn’t necessarily surmise that this isn’t real. I’m really sorry to those of you I disappointed.

I will never ask you for money here, or any personal information, or send asks anonymous or otherwise from here or my main personal blog as “Tumblr Ghoul”. I have had one person ask to message me so I messaged them to allow them to do that. If somebody contacts you claiming to be the person running this blog, they are lying. Please block them. My interactions here I aim to keep as public as possible, hence being increasingly liberal with replies and reblogs as the number of people interacting grew.

My only goal with this blog is to advertise for a band that I love and to entertain/ help the fandom when and where I can. I love and appreciate all the fanart and interest in the character of Tumblr Ghoul but I don’t want anybody to feel obligated to me and I especially don’t want to hurt anybody. I started this blog for fun and that how I want it to remain- fun for everyone.

People pointed out when I didn’t post for some time a few months back and it was because I had lost interest in the blog and was going through a rough time- and then one particularly bad day I got on to check it by chance and just seeing your guy’s tags and comments made me feel so much better. I tell people that I found Ghost when I really needed a friend and they fulfilled that for me, but the past few months you guys have done just the same for me. I am so sorry to have betrayed that and made you feel unsafe and lied to in return.

As of posting I do intend to still run the blog as I have been (with a disclaimer added to the bio regarding the legitimacy of this account)- posting about tours, chapters, merch, etc, as well as Fanart Friday. I 100% understand if anybody doesn’t want to be involved in that, so anybody who has tagged me in something and don’t want it on the blog now, I can open messages and you can let me know. I will probably close them again after a week or so if I get a large flood of unrelated messages.

Please do not message me asking me who I am, who knows about the blog, etc. Gaining popularity was never something I wanted from this so I will stay anonymous, for the time being at the very least. A very small number of people know who is behind the blog and to my knowledge only one of them is even on Tumblr and in the fandom.

Thank you for all the support you’ve shown me, Ghost, and eachother. It can be easy to see the bad parts of a community and roll your eyes electing to keep your distance, but since starting this blog I’ve been reminded what good community is even when it’s frustrating sometimes.

Thank you for reading, I won’t hold it against anybody who wants to separate themselves from this blog at this point, and please don’t let my oversight and general dummyness sour your experience with Ghost or its other fans. Enjoy the rest of this tour and whether it’s with or without me, please keep rawking 🤘 Be good to eachother.

Thank you.

[nerdylilpeebee]

The more I think of episode 8, the more it kinda annoys me.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the episode, but fuck man, does this finale REEK of one of two things: either the show was cancelled, or the writer couldn't think of any way to satisfyingly tie up all the plot threads they set up. Hence why nearly each one got a very quick, very brief "here you go" before moving on the main shit.

Nori and Khan's reunion? Quick, albeit cute scene where Nori acts bashful and Khan thinks she's hot but doesn't quite know who she is.

V's return? Oh look, V's back and here's some fanservice as she's on a raptor like so many of you did in fanarts. Not gonna address how she survived, or how she got this thing to do what she wanted it to, just here you go, she's, back. Anyway, time for fight scenes.

J's reaction to Tessa being dead, something it was subtly implied she didn't know back in episode 6 when she acted confused as to why Tessa wanted her to stay behind? Not even gonna include this, she just implies she's scared and wants to be on the winning side. We'll even toss in her saying she never needed V and N just so you don't notice we've given this character basically no character development and she exists just as a final barrier before Cyn. Please ignore she attempted to kill N with absolutely no hesitation the second set got the excuse to, making it make absolutely zero fucking sense she cared about either of her teammates.

Doll? You get a quick image of her corpse just before the credits. Please ignore the glaring plothole that SHOULD have meant she survived her wounds, since ya know... Uzi does the exact same with a worse wound, coming back from a fatal error simply cuz her core was placed back on her chest cavity... Which was the case for Doll the ENTIRE time she was injured, as it never left her body. (This is the most egregious one to me. No dialogue or nothing, not even a scene of Lizzy, her best friend, looking sad at her death. This was a MAJOR CHARACTER, and all we get to tie up her story is a flash of her corpse to tell us "yep, she's dead folks.")

Ooo, how about how Uzi is gonna resist the solver? You get a quick scene at the start that implies the necklace her mom gave her somehow gives her resistance... Please ignore this has never been implied at any point before in the story and the solver was VISIBLY shown taking over her body while she still had the fucking necklace on in the previous fucking episode.

They even kinda hand wave Nuzi, and don't even give us the long-awaited kiss. I'm not saying it was 100% necessary, but fuck man could it have helped the episode a lot of we at least got that.

... I enjoyed the episode. I did. There were lots of cute moments, the fight scenes were cool, and I loved Cyn...

But by the fucking GODS did this seem like they were just trying to end it with no regard for the story they'd set up. I am 100% in the camp of "Murder Drones was cancelled, they just don't want the backlash that comes with cancelling a well-loved show." The rushed nature of this finale and the fact it was advertised as the "season finale" up until I think episode 7 makes it glaringly obvious they intended to let these plot points breathe. To do SOMETHING that wasn't a rush-job.

Again, for the third time, I enjoyed the episode. I do love what we got. but I will forever mourn what we could have had. If it even just got room to breathe, longer than 20 fucking minutes, it could have been satisfying. It could have tied up these plot points just fine. But it didn't.

Such wasted potential.

[phaticserpent]

gosh this is such a random request but i was just drawing fanart of pan and then i was thinking about him with like a shy artist y/n?

like they’ve been on neverland only for a little while and has a bit of a crush on him and so they’re like secretly drawing him a lot- and maybe one day he accidentally finds those drawings (maybe some of them are even a bit explicit heh) and he like asks them about it and they get super flustered and then idk fluff or smut or whatever ensues~

ahsjdbjdbc i feel like this could be really cute

OOOOO !!! AND NOTHING IS A RANDOM REQUEST! THIS IS AN AMAZING REQUEST - I ALWAYS LOVE ARTIST!READER <3

Being part of Neverland and Pan's crew of lost ones was a lot to take in, but definitely not in protest. You enjoyed their company and the wild energy of the group. Still, you weren't wild which did confuse some of the lost boys and even worried Pan.

The only one who seemed to understand your silence, was Felix, which you were thankful for. While you were still getting accustomed to Neverland, Felix helped you gain your confidence and voice, so you gradually started conversing with the other boys.

There was just a slight problem, you were still nervous and awkward around Pan. He took it personally and felt offended, which meant he confided to Felix about your true feelings and Felix couldn't tell - since he didn't really know either. In truth? You were hiding our feelings and pages full of drawings of him. It started out small, like a couple of doodles of his side profile, him playing the panpipes, and then your entire sketchbook was filled with drawings of Pan. You felt almost ashamed and guilty, you were afraid that he would find you weird if he ever saw them.

So you tried to avoid him or minimize the conversation, just so he didn't suspect anything. But he did. And he wanted to get to the bottom of it.

While you and Felix took your nightly strolls, where the two of you find comfort in each other's company and the scenery of Neverland, Pan goes to your tent to confront you but finds it empty.

"Hey," Felix starts. "So...Pan has been asking me and I'm also curious, but he notices that you're different around him compared to the other lost boys."

Your face flushed. "Oh....he's been asking about me?"

"Mhm, he's worries and he thinks you hate him or something."

"Oh." You sighed. "I don't hate him. I just feel....awkward, like he's really cool and he's the leader. Not to mention, he's conventionally attractive and it makes me embarrassed....."

"....You like him."

"What? No....I don't."

"......It's obvious."

"It is?" You cried.

"Well, not to Pan." Felix chuckled. "But you make it obvious."

"Oh." You sighed. "Felix, what do I do? I can't have feelings for Pan!"

"Don't ask me." Felix shrugged. "I'm not good with relationships and feelings, but I would say....be honest. He would appreciate it."

You smiled at him. "Thank you." By the time you returned, Pan had already seen all your drawings. Your face flushed and your mouth hung agape as he stared at some of your pieces, turning his head to finally notice your return.

"Oh! (Y/N), I-"

"What are you doing here? And.....you saw my drawings!" You cried out. Admitting defeat, you put your face in your hands while shaking your head. "I'm going to jump off a cliff."

"No!" Pan protested. He gently set down your drawings before prying your hands out of your face. "Look at me?" With your face heated in embarrassment, you looked up at him.

"....Don't hate me."

"......Why would I hate you?" Pan raised a brow. You shamefully pointed at your drawings and he chuckled softly. "Love, I'm flattered. Am I your muse?"

"Pan!" You gasped. "I.....ugh." Once again, your buried your face into your hands. Pan sighed and hesitantly pulled you in for a hug. You stood there, frozen in shock and confusion.

"I don't hate you, I'm more confused by everything. You keep avoiding me and running away.....I thought I did something to offend you." Pan breathed out. "So imagine my confusion when the person I thought hated me.....dedicated an entire sketchbook of me. Yeah? You get me, love?"

"Heh," You smiled into his neck. "I get you."

Pan pulled back and you met his gaze, he raised a brow with a teasing smirk gradually growing on his lips. You could practically hear what he was about to say. "I can't believe you've been hiding these drawings of me.....from me!"

Your face flushed and his laughter from your reaction was so contagious but so annoying, you just wanted to.....Pan's eyes widened in shock when you pulled him down to press your lips to his. You pulled away, letting out a shaky breath to say a quick apology, when he pulled you back in and kiss you with more vigor.

His kiss moved from your lips to your jaw, and he let out a breathy groan against the shell of your ear. "How about we make up for lost time, yeah?" He knows how to pull a reaction from you.

Taglist: @fandom-fae @james-800 @kornelia-yells-in-the-void

[sage-nebula]

WatcherTV Debrief

I said I was going to write down all of my thoughts yesterday, but I was simply too tired after work. So I'm going to do so now, in a post that is likely going to be very long, but hopefully will still be worth the read for some of you anyway.

TL;DR: I believe this is a very poor decision on Watcher Entertainment's part and it is at the very least going to cost them a huge swath of their fanbase, if not their entire company in the long run. And at this point in time, I myself will not be subscribing.

With that said though, I don't want this post to merely be a rant about how much I dislike the decision, so I'm going to start off by looking at things from their perspective and explaining why, although some people in the fanbase might feel betrayed, none of the three (yes, three, because Steven, Ryan, and Shane were all equal parts of this decision) personally betrayed anyone in the fandom. If you're still angry, I understand that seeing what might seem like a "defense" might be upsetting, but again, I hope you'll find some value in it regardless.

All of that said, that plus my extensive criticism of this decision is going to be long, so let's go beneath a cut.

First, let us state the obvious: Watcher Entertainment is a media company -- a business -- and Shane Madej, Ryan Bergara, and Steven Lim are not your friends. They are business owners first, and media producers + actors second.

I italicized actors to draw attention to it, because this is something that I think gets . . . not forgotten, per se, but pushed aside in people's minds when they consume video content online, particularly when that video content is on YouTube, which originally began as a point and shoot video upload website that was meant to give anyone and everyone the ability to upload their vlogs or silly little videos. The term "parasocial relationships" is one that has proliferated across the internet, but I think the issue here -- with Shane and Ryan in particular -- is not only that people are thinking of them as "friends," but also that they are thinking, "These are their authentic selves, this is who they really are, I know them." And the fact of the matter is, that isn't true. Shane and Ryan are actors. What we see in their videos isn't their authentic selves. We don't know them.

Now, that isn't to say that it's all a lie. It isn't quite the same as, say, Ryan Gosling or Leo DiCaprio playing a role in a film. But every internet celebrity (and that is what they are at this point) presents themselves in a particular way to their audience. Even in the Pod Watcher podcast, where ostensibly they're having Just Friendly Conversations About Whatever's On Their Minds, they're mindful of the fact that their audience is listening, their audience is judging, their audience is making gifs and fanart of moments they like. They're acting. They're playing up personas to keep fans engaged, to keep fans coming back for more.

So Shane and Ryan (and Steven, when he can be) are actors. You don't know their true authentic selves, and you never have. Anything they say has to be taken with a grain of salt, because they are saying what they want you to hear. Even their live shows are rehearsed. And what this means -- that they only show you what they want to show you -- is that they did not betray you, because they couldn't betray you. They don't know you, just like you don't know them. Betrayal is not possible here.

To that end, Watcher Entertainment is a media company -- in other words, a business. And businesses must generate not only revenue, but profit in order to stay afloat. Now, I don't know what Watcher's financial books look like right now. I have seen people throwing around a lot of numbers about what they have to make from Patreon, from ticket and merchandise sales, et cetera, but without looking at the expense reports, the bank statements, and the budget sheets, it's difficult for any of us to say just what state Watcher is in financially. We can guess, but that's the best we can do.

That said though, we don't have to guess to know the very basic principle of running a business. A business has to, at the bare minimum, break even. Ideally, the business would profit, so that they can not only do things like pay their employees fairly, but also so that they can expand and grow. Any business requires money in order to make product, whether that product is food, an item that you can purchase, or entertainment media that you consume as a viewer. As nice as it would be if Watcher could make their content without needing money to do so, they can't. Even independent YouTubers, including video essayists and Let's Players, require money to make their content. The equipment, in both purchasing and upkeep, requires money. The games (for Let's Players) require money. Internet and electricity bills, food, books needed for research, props, et cetera -- all of that requires money. No matter how simple a video may look, it still requires money to make. There is a reason that most people aren't able to make YouTube a full time job, and it isn't because they aren't talented; it's because it is a deceptively expensive venture to get into.

So with that said, even without knowing Watcher's current financial situation, it does make sense that they need money to run their business, purely from a "businesses need money" standpoint. This is common sense. This is why things like Watcher selling merchandise, having sponsored ads, having a Patreon, et cetera always made sense. And it is possible, too, that even if their present financial situation is okay, that they are thinking about the future, and costs they are likely to be incurring within the next year.

I don't know how many people within the fanbase listen to their podcast, Pod Watcher, but I do. A few episodes ago, Steven revealed that he wants to open a Malaysian restaurant within the next year. This is his dream, to bring Malaysian culture to the United States with food. This is an amazing dream for him, it's wonderful for him, I wish him success in this venture.

However, running a restaurant -- and not only running one, but building one from the ground up and running it -- takes an astronomical amount of time and energy. This is time and energy that Steven is currently expending keeping Watcher Entertainment afloat as the sole person in charge of managing their financials. (He has the official title of CEO, with Shane and Ryan having stepped away from that title In Name Only to focus on production, but the job that Steven is actually doing is CFO -- Chief Financial Officer.) So when Steven announced that he was going to be opening a restaurant within the next year, what I heard was, "Oh, Steven is leaving Watcher within the next year." This is supported, in my opinion, by Steven saying things like how Shane and Ryan will get free drinks whenever they visit, and then hastily tacking on fans can have it, too. He was trying not to show that he was leaving just yet to the fanbase, but the writing is on the wall and they all know it.

What this means is that when Steven leaves, they will need to find someone to replace him. Either Shane and/or Ryan will need to step away from producing and acting in their shows to take over CFO duties (which the reason why they stepped away is because they handled CFO duties poorly while Steven was better equipped for it, so I doubt either of them would like to do this), or they will need to hire someone to do that for them. The lowest CFO salary in LA I can find is $140k/year, and that isn't including benefits. Since Steven helped found the company, it's doubtful he's making that much, but his replacement won't be a founder and will likely want competitive compensation. There is a good chance that, considering this, Shane, Ryan, and Steven feel pressured to bring in a lot more money than they're currently doing right now.

And I understand all of that. I have supported them where I can; yesterday I literally wore my $80+ Mystery Files jacket to work, which felt a bit bitter after the news broke and I realized I wouldn't be able to watch future seasons of said show. I overpaid for a denim jacket because I wanted to support them. It's not as if I don't understand.

However . . . here is where the criticism begins.

To begin with, there is an old saying: you have to spend money to make money. To go back to my previous statements about how even smaller scale YouTubers spend money to keep producing videos to keep their channels afloat, what this saying means is that if you aren't going to put any money into your business or product, you aren't going to have a business or product to generate any revenue. However, some young business owners take this to the extreme, and figure that if they pump tons and tons and tons of cash into their business at the start, it will start to generate revenue more quickly. What ends up happening is that they overspend, sometimes even despite their best efforts not to, and end up not being able to claw their way back out of the red in the end.

Unfortunately, that is what I think that Watcher is doing with their new streamer.

Let's be clear: There have been valid criticisms about how they seemingly over-budget on shows that don't need to have such high production values or budget. Someone mentioned that their Let's Play show (I don't watch that one because horror games are uninteresting to me, so I don't remember the name) credits something akin to 26 people, which is silly when you consider the fact that there are independent Let's Players who are able to produce content themselves. Of course, you have to remember that the LPers on YouTube are editing their own videos, which Ryan and Shane probably aren't able to do -- but even then, that would be one or perhaps two additional editors. The number of people they have working on that particular venture does seem excessive.

With that said though, those 26 people were already employed and being paid, so having them work on the Let's Play show was likely not a new business expense. The streamer, however, is a completely different story.

First, they had to have paid likely multiple people to build the WatcherTV streaming website for them. Granted, I could be wrong since I have never used Squarespace, but I find it difficult to believe this is something Squarespace would be capable of handling. So unless they already had experienced programmers on their staff, they would have had to hire programmers to build the streaming website. They would also need to pay for hosting the streaming website, which includes not only the domain, but server space for all of their videos, and videos take up a lot of space. Previously, YouTube hosted all of their videos. Now? That needs to be on Watcher, and server space and maintenance is not cheap.

So they are paying for programmers, domain name, server space, server maintenance. They are also going to need to pay for security. Not only do they need to be concerned about any potential DDoS attempts, but more importantly they need security to ensure that they can't suffer a data breach and lose the credit card information of their subscribers, something which happens all the time to other companies. Now you may say, if it happens all the time and those companies are fine, Watcher will be too, right? Well, does Watcher have lawyers on retainer? Because litigation can be raised against companies with insufficient website security that puts customers' financial information at risk, which means Watcher could find themselves facing a lawsuit if their streamer is hacked and credit card information is stolen.

So they will need to pay for systems administrators to not only build security for the streamer, but also maintain security for the streamer, because cyber attacks evolve each day and it is a constant battle against them. It is possible that whatever third party they partnered with to build the streamer for them bundled all this together (if that is the route they went), but either way, services like that do not come cheap -- and if they do, you are not getting a service of value.

So what this comes down to is that Watcher Entertainment has likely spent a ton of money they allegedly do not have to build this streamer, taking the "you have to spend money to make money" adage to the extreme. Their hope, near as I can tell, is that they will generate enough revenue from the streamer so that they will be able to recoup the cost of building and maintaining the streamer and generate profit. However, judging by the reaction from the fandom, I think that is unlikely.

As everyone knows, the reaction to this news has been abysmal. While some of the responses toward Steven and Ryan in particular have been racist vomit, I do think there are valid reasons for why this news has been received so poorly. These reasons include:

Watcher built hype for a week, with a countdown timer and everything, teasing an announcement as if it were a new show or similar "gift" to the fandom, when in reality it was the news that the fandom would now have to pay for content that was previously free.

Patreon subscribers are expected to continue paying the same amount, but for far less content than before. Access to the streamer is not included in the basic tier; they'll need to double their cash output.

Many fans are international fans who can't access the streamer at all without a VPN to switch their location to the United States. Even if they want to pay, they are barred from doing so, meaning that Watcher Entertainment is shutting a large portion of its fanbase out for the foreseeable future.

Watcher took a very patronizing tone with their audience in both the announcement video and their Patreon letter. In the announcement video, which was fourteen minutes long when the actual pertinent information took half that time to deliver (if that), they began with a long diatribe about their careers and how much YouTube meant to them, and how sad they were to leave it -- as if they had guns held to their head, and weren't making this decision of their own volition. This is condescending; it implies they believe their audience is stupid enough to believe they were backed into a corner and have no choice. In the Patreon letter, they had a line that read, "And part of that change includes a bit of news that will surely be met with some fits of sobs- we're bringing Watcher Weekly+ to a close. We know. We know." Again, this is patronizing language. They are talking down to their fans, and assuming their fans will be heartbroken by losing a behind scenes the video, or whatever Watcher Weekly+ is. This arrogant, condescending tone does not help soften the blow of being told they are going to pay the same amount of money for less content.

As you can see, the way that Watcher Entertainment executed the announcement that they would be moving future content behind a paywall was abysmal, and the fanbase reacted accordingly. Provided that the anger isn't empty and that the current fanbase sticks true to their word about not subscribing (either out of principle, location, or because they can't afford it), Watcher Entertainment has lost a huge chunk of expected revenue directly out of the gate. And it's possible that they expected this; they had to know they would be shutting out international fans (at least for a time, presumably) and that there would be fans who couldn't afford it. But it's possible that they felt that there would be enough fans to support and subscribe anyway (hence the arrogant tone about people sobbing over losing Watcher Weekly+; that attitude screams of "you're so devoted to us you will do whatever we ask no matter the cost"), and also that they would be able to pick up enough new fans that it would cushion the blow of losing old fans.

Here is where the next problem lies.

Watcher's current subscription model is $5.99/month or $60/year. If you go monthly, you end up paying $72 for the year, so the annual plan is the better deal by $12. When you compare pricing to other streaming services, this may not seem so bad at first; it's on par with DropoutTV, and it's cheaper than Netflix, Disney+, and other big names such as those.

The difference, though, is that all of those other streamers -- DropoutTV included -- have far more content than Watcher does, meaning that the customer (and keep in mind that we are customers, we are not friends, and truly we are not fans when we are paying them money for product from their business) gets more bang for their buck.

I have seen the argument from defenders of the streamer in fandom that say, "So you care about quantity over quality?" And this argument is flawed for several reasons:

There are plenty of quality TV shows on other streaming platforms. DropoutTV has Game Changer. Hulu has Schitt's Creek and Abbot Elementary. Peacock has The Office and Parks & Recreation, so on and so forth. Watcher Entertainment has good shows, but they are not the only good shows in the whole of the media industry. Dare I say, they aren't even the only good shows on YouTube.

While Watcher does produce shows of high quality, their shows have tiny seasons of only six episodes each, and their seasons are spaced out months apart. They also cancel their shows without warning or announcement, meaning fans can wait (and wait, and wait) for a new season of a show they like that will never come, because Watcher dropped the show and didn't bother making official word on it. If you go through Watcher's entire content library (which is easy to do even if you like all their shows, and even easier if you only have a handful of shows you enjoy), then you will be paying for a streamer that you do not use for months on end while you wait for the next batch of six episodes that you maybe want to see if, again, you don't like all of their shows. (I myself only follow five: Puppet History, Mystery Files, Too Many Spirits, Top 5 Beatdown, and Ghost Files.) That is money you have spent on a service you rarely use. In other words: money wasted.

That last point is particularly important when you consider that Watcher Entertainment hopes to draw new customers in to subscribe to their streamer.

Pretend, for a moment, that you have never heard of Ryan, Shane, or Watcher before. You are browsing YouTube, and you come across the season premier of season three of Ghost Files. You enjoy it, so you think, oh, I would like to view the rest of the season. You learn that the rest of the season is on a streaming service called WatcherTV, which only hosts series that Watcher themselves have produced. Their library is very small right now. New episodes for ongoing seasons are weekly, they only have one season airing at a time, new seasons have month long gaps between them. This service costs $60 a year annually, or $6 a month ($72 annually). You've never seen any of their other shows before, and while you could technically afford it, it's not as if money is no object to you. You'd likely have to give up a streamer that has a much, much larger selection of shows and movies you already know you like to give this one a shot. (This one that, mind you, doesn't work outside of your internet browser, so you can't watch it on your television either.)

Would you do it? Really put yourselves in the shoes of someone who has no familiarity at all with Shane, Ryan, Steven, or their shows before that moment. Would you choose to pay $60 for a streamer with low accessibility, and a tiny, infrequently updated library? Especially if it meant losing access to so much more?

It isn't just that numerical value of the price that makes it a bad move. It's the price relative to the product being offered. Watcher's own fans, who love their content, are fiercely divided over whether to subscribe, with many saying they won't. In what universe does someone who has never heard of Watcher sign up to pay them that much for so little offerings? Particularly when they'll only be advertising via YouTube, and infrequently at that given that they'll only be posting season premiers?

(And this is not getting into how they were originally going to pull all of their content before the backlash. Yes, they walked it back -- but not only did they say in the video that the content would only be live until May 31st, but the Variety article says that the company originally told Variety that they would be pulling content, only for Ryan to issue a statement saying they wouldn't do that after. Meaning, they walked that part back because that's the part they could walk back. They have undoubtedly sank far too much money into the streamer to back out of that now. It's way too late.)

Businesses need to make money. Steven, Ryan, and Shane are business owners who are trying to make their business profitable. But I believe that this was one of the worst ways to go about it. I'm not saying that I know exactly what they should have done instead. I don't have all the answers. But I do know that from the terrible execution of getting everyone excited only to tell them (in the most patronizing way possible) that they would now have to pay for a previously free service, to deciding to sink a bunch of money into a streamer that they seem to have done no market research on beforehand and that they don't have the content library to support, this absolutely seems like the wrong way. Moving their content to an existing streamer like Nebula would have been a better move, in my opinion. (And it would have prompted me to actually sign up for Nebula, since there are several video essayists I haven't followed there . . . but I would have followed Watcher, since it would give me access to Watcher content and the content of those video essayists I've been missing.)

But what's done is done. As I said, I think at this point Watcher Entertainment has jumped off the cliff and they didn't do so with a bungee cable. I don't think they can walk this back. I'll be interested in seeing if they succeed, but I have very strong doubts they will.

[thegoober010]

Hello! Could I request Trey, Cater, Kalim, and Lilia with a reader who played twst (the game) and shows them fanart? Headcannons please!

HELP I LOVE THIS IDEA !! OFC YOU CAN BUDDY :D ‼️‼️

gender neutral reader as always !

Tws/Cws : none !

Also idk how this would work but I'm guessing like it's an au sorta thing where the twst characters end up irl somehow or somehow the reader who plays twst ends up in the twst world ?

Ima go with the second option though !

Hopefully I'm right idk ?!

oh also I didn’t know which type of fanarts you meant so I did like tame ones/wholesome ones, ship ones, and like weird ones sooo yeah

sorry if this isn’t what you wanted ! I tried my best ig!?

---

♤ Trey Clover ♤

Trey was literally just staring with a concerned expression at you

He was obviously in a bit of shock after you explained your whole situation meanwhile you were just happy he listened to you

And now here you are showing him all the fanarts of him

You started off tame just showing him all the cute and nice fanarts of him chilling or just being with his friends or being put into different outfits/meeting other characters

He didn't have much of an opinion on them he was just happy people liked him enough to draw him as well as his friends !

After a bit of showing him the more tame art of him it quickly went downhill after you showed him the ship art. In all honesty he thought some of them were cute even if he didn’t think some of the ships could be possible due to the other persons opinion on him or his on theirs but some of the ships made him a bit uncomfortable

You obviously just showed him the cute ship art first all of that and then immediately after he went “eh that’s sweet I guess….” After that you immediately showed him the more… concerning fanart/shipart

“…. Oh great sevens…” is all he mutters out before staring at you with the most concerned and uncomfortable expression ever while you laugh mischievously

He doesn’t say much after that and he gently grabs your hand and puts your phone down to your pocket before shaking his head.

there’s a good awkward silence between you two for a good 30 minutes before Riddle and Cater come into the room and the topic immediately changes with all of you now just playing a card game.

Trey does make you promise to never show him those weird fanarts ever again though ^_^”!

Cater Diamond

He listens very intently to you while you explain everything and he gets a little freaked out but…. You’re his friend so… he listens I guess, but it’s obvious with his face he’s a little freaked

After that you two are a little awkward but you changed the subject quickly with.. “Do you wanna see the fanarts people make of you and everyone else…?”

…..

“Hell yeah 😍”

You start off tame as well showing him the cute fanarts of him and his friends but mainly of him and he lets out a few laughs at how accurate they are

Is honestly super happy he has fans in your world too “Well I’m like super popular here so I’m like not surprised I’m popular in your world!” He jokes

He immediately takes out his phone and asks you to send them to him like ASAP

You do, after all if you don’t he won’t stop bothering you about it and basically begs for the art, plus he kinda wants to show it off and if anyone asks he’ll just say some of his fans/follwers drew him !

After that you start showing him the ship art and to be honest he doesn’t mind them much but he does ask often why people decide to ship him and people he doesn’t see himself liking romantically

He doesn’t ask you to send any of the ship art which was a bit of a surprise but understandable

Once you finished showing him the ship art you gained quite the mischievous thought. Why not show him the more hmmm deranged ones ?

Let’s just say he was jaw dropped at some of the art. He was obviously uncomfortable with some of it too… He laughed nervously before patting your shoulder “Lol I think that’s all you should show me .” And that’s where it ends, you two went out for some ice cream after that and posted pictures of what yall got !

he never mentioned the fanart again besides asking to send just one more wholesome one to post on his story or something !

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is low key surprised but very understanding about your situation ! You two were hanging out in his room when you had explained everything and eating food as well as a few crackers when you randomly decided to spill that little fun fact of yourself to him !

He was very quick to make the topic less awkward by joking about your situation trying to make you feel better

After that you asked him if he wanted to see his fanarts and he had the biggest smile ever at the thought that people draw HIM LIKE when I tell you he could not stop nodding

You happily obliged and showed him all the tame fanarts of him where he was hanging out with the others or where it was just him and such and he LOVED them. He looked like he was about to cry out of joy

He was so happy and he asked you if you could print out the drawings so he can put them in a notebook or something (you said yes)

After that you showed him the ship arts and he didn’t really mind them, he thought it was a little funny how people liked shipping him with his friends and such but he didn’t really get some of the ships lol

He would ask sometimes why he’s shipped with these people but that he doesn’t really mind he just thinks it’s interesting pairings and so on

You explained a bit the dynamics blah blah blah but after that you showed him the more… strange art. Safe to say he had that shocked look on him. He didn’t get why people drew such things….

He joked about them a bit trying his best not to seem concerned but after that you felt bad so you showed him more wholesome ones again and safe to say he got wayyy happier and less concerned !

Lilia Vanrouge

He listens very intently to your yappin and explanation, he’s not very shocked that happened or concerned, when you reach his age (not like we can tho…) not many things surprise you anymore, even things like this…

He just chuckled before patting your shoulder and giving advice on the situation and promises to help you out

After a bit of silence you ask him if he wants to see fanarts and he seems a little surprised, well that did surprise him a bit huh… well why not? What’s the harm in it.

You grinned at his response and just show him so many wholesome fanarts of him taking care of malleus and silver or just him or him when he was a general and so on and he was quite impressed. He did give a few critiques to some art but he would also compliment all the art a lot as if he were an art nerd reviewing 18th century art or sumn

He took your phone sometimes to look closer (you know that grandpa pose where the grab the phone take off their glasses and move their head to see something better, yeah, that pose basically) and he was so chatty about each fanart

You send him like one or two art pieces and hes smiling really wide, it was a nice sight like he literally can’t stop smiling for a good while when you show him and send the sweet fanarts !

You then show him ship arts and he just giggles at some of them (like the ones with malleus’ mom) and says “I wish hehe” and things of that nature

He seems really chill about certain ship arts (after all it’s with malleus’ mom most of them so ofc he likes them or thinks they’re silly) and even compliments the drawings at times :)!

Once you show him the weirder fanarts he just laughs uncomfortably before only letting out a few giggles. He’s not surprised he got these types of fanarts, after all if there were tame and wholesome ones of course there’d also be these types. So he doesn’t really care he just shrugs them off

tbh you thought he’d have a different reaction but oh well!

He also asks you if there’s any fanarts of baby malleus or silver so that he could show them to them !

you happily send him a few 😊

[action-index]

This post will be completely different from the rest of my posts, mainly because it will be an analysis of a movie, rather than fanart. I really love Matt Johnson's work so I wanted to give The Dirties appreciation by mentioning something that I noticed about the ending scene that I don't think anyone else has talked about.

Warning: LE SPOILAZ, mentions of death

THE DIRTIES and The Symbolism in the Ending Scene, Whether Intended or Not Intended

(aka Symbolism when Matt finds Owen at the end of the movie and how it connects to the rest of the film.)

Something that never really gets noticed in the ending scene that I feel is given not enough credit is the symbolism found in what both Matt and Owen wear at the end. This could be poking at straws but even if it wasn't intended, it adds so much to the movie and just wouldn't feel the same if Matt and Owen were wearing different clothes for this scene. It mainly connects to the colors of the shirts they wear and how they connect to the general conflict between Matt and Owen within the story.

First, let us look at Matt's "WE'RE ONLY HERE FOR THE BAD GUYS" shirt.

Even when glossing over the very massive warning sign stitched in bold font, this shirt does provide some symbolism alluding to Matt's character throughout the film. Obviously a warm color, a bright, unavoidable orange.

Warm colors, more specifically in this case, orange, often provide symbolism of say, enthusiasm or energy, which Matt definitely showcases in the movie, to when he's excitedly and innocently boasting about his idea for his film project to even when he hauntingly plans to kill his own classmates. They also provide symbolism of frustration and immaturity, which Matt also showcases.

This reflects his actions in the shooting scene, where he enthusiastically ends two people's lives, his own taunting words as he kills them reflecting the frustration he felt from the words they said to him. The color reflects his actions perfectly.

Now secondly, let us show Owen's shirt:

Now the symbolism may be more weaker on this one compared to Matt's obvious warning sign of a shirt, but do bear with me here.

Obviously Owen's plain light sky blue shirt is a cool color, showcasing a passiveness and honesty, and reflects Owen's more preserved character and his preference to stay away from confrontation, compared to Matt's more enthusiastic drive.

However, the trait that seems to shine more when he wore this blue shirt in the shooting scene, is his preference to not be confronted. He actively tries to avoid Matt and runs away, fearing for his own life. He did not want confrontation because he feared for his life.

Now that I've explained the symbolism found in both shirts, I would now like to get to the point of the whole essay, is how Owen and Matt wearing these shirts near the end says so much about their character when in the same room, especially in such a tense seen as this.

The main thing I got from these outfits is that it reflects not only their personalities, but how Matt and Owen are almost complete opposites to each other.

Of course they do rub off on each other in the movie, but that's a regular thing that happens when hanging with friends; their traits start to rub off on you and influence you.

But without that, Owen is a much more unconfrontational, passive, and shy character, passionate but not wanting to exactly be the center of attention. Meanwhile, Matt is the most likely to make himself known, to share his want to be respected, show his ambition. Very much social opposites, an introvert vs. an extravert.

Blue and orange are ALSO directly opposite colors too.

I feel the best way to fully end this off and end this long rambling session is: take the shirt colors and then the concept of yin-yang and try to relate it to the, intended or not, symbolism found in the shooting scene and the outfits worn, and how it reflects Owen and Matt's characters and overall relationship.

The yin and yang are meant to be representations of direct opposites, that balance each other out. When Owen, the more passive, begins to separate himself from Matt, the enthusiastic, Matt falls apart, mainly because Owen was his only friend. The balance no longer exists. He begins to wallow in his self-isolation and ends up committing the massacre that soon takes the lives of two people. The shirt colors, both clearly oppositional, reflect the yin-yang relationship, their own personalities, and the balance they had and how it all circled back around to this very moment.

Thank you for listening.

If anyone would be down to tell their thoughts on this analysis, do let me know! This is my first time doing something like this, and I'm not usually much of a writer, so I REALLY WANT YOUR FEEDBACK. Have an amazing day :)

[imaginethat0327]

Inhaling and exhaling slowly, Xisuma nodded, and for what felt like the millionth time, tapped into his admin magic. The familiar purple screen and keyboard appeared behind his closed eyes, and the rest of the physical world began to fall away.

But this time, Xisuma reached for something deeper than his admin magic. 

It was pretty obvious that aside from his helmet, Xisuma didn’t really look like or appear to be any sort of hybrid. He was strong, but being tall meant that his strength didn’t seem out of the ordinary. He was quick, but many skills could be attained with practice and time. He was oddly attuned to admin magic, but there were many admins out there (*cough* Dream *cough*) who were fully human but incredibly skilled with admin magic. His features all appeared to be that of a normal human, and the helmet could be explained away as an aesthetic choice or an aid to a lung illness of some sort. 

But Xisuma was still a hybrid, and he was a hybrid who’s mob-kin were some of the most mysterious beings in the entire universe. Primarily because they existed on a plane that was invisible to most other players and mobs. Secondarily because they had the uncanny to warp, manipulate, and distort code. An ability that had inevitably been passed down to Xisuma himself. 

The abilities of the voidkind always worked best when actually present in the void, or at least the End. Using them in the overworld, or especially the nether, could be dangerous. But Xisuma was at the end of his rope of patience and out of ideas, so he reached deep, deep within himself, drawing upon a special kind of magic that caused the edges of his admin screen to pulse with pink and white lights, and strength to flood into his very being. 

And then, as the universe came into view and the shrouds of color that were Fwhip and Scott materialized beside him, Xisuma’s soul unfurled itself and he flew . 

Code couldn’t, of course, take a physical shape. But Xisuma’s soul had a solid presence here in the universal code, with voidkind magic filling it out and giving it defined lines and planes and mass. As Xisuma sank deeper into the admin trance, grasping the edges of the well of voidkind magic that was buried deep within him and pulling it upwards in a tidal wave, his invisible limbs grew inky and starry as the night sky, long wings spreading to curve through the dazzling streams of code like fins in water. He knew that when his eyes “opened,” they shone bright as stars themselves, and that his mass streamed behind him like a great shadowy cloud. 

New fanart! I had a lot of fun with this - I love playing with light and sparkles, lol. Xisuma as this crazy eldritch beastie in the code-space is a headcanon I will never surrender. Come read Rescue Fire to check it out, if you haven’t already!

-ImagineThat 🦜

[inkdemonapologist]

What are your thoughts on the characterization of the ink demon himself?

In BatDR? Ehhhhh…….

There’s plenty of room for interesting headcanons, especially what with the Ink Demon and Bendy behaving so differently. A lot of folks have imagined it as a Jekyll & Hyde type situation, which is neat, or just an internal Venom-esque “the souls of the innocent/two bagels” dynamic. Or there’s the interpretation that the Ink Demon deep down wants the love and acceptance he gets as Baby Bendy; he’s the same guy, but his emotions have been messed with and he’s being treated differently so he reacts differently, which is a take I actually really like.

Just looking at the Ink Demon on his own, it’s SO easy to read him as a teenager, thinking he’s so cool and edgy talking about his Dark Kingdom, not looking like Bendy anymore b/c hes decided wanting to look like Bendy is cringy and he’s TOUGH AND POINTY NOW – then making The Dumbest Mistake at the end by letting Audrey possess him because he thinks it’ll make him more powerful, and having no idea how to fix it, but still trying to act cool. The idea of BatIM’s Ink Demon being the equivalent of a frustrated child lashing out, and BatDR’s Ink Demon being a teenager who has internalised that he’ll be harmed if he’s not powerful and has embraced being evil and violent and hated as a shield, is an interpretation that makes sense to me. There was this GREAT fanart I vaguely recall but cannot find again of the Ink Demon with a symbolic birdcage in the middle of his chest where the little Bendy rocked peacefully on a swing – Bendy as the piece of him that’s scared and hurt, a piece he’s pushed from sight more and more in favour of making himself more sharp and cruel, but now can’t always hide, is a REALLY INTERESTING thematic concept.

But the truth is that we didn’t get any of those things --

Bendy and the Ink Demon being the same creature is a really interesting development that is literally never touched on beyond explaining how and why it happened. What does Bendy think of the Ink Demon form? What does the Ink Demon think of the Bendy form? Are they two consciousnesses, or the same guy? Really obvious questions that you’d think would be inherently guaranteed to come up due to the premise, but they don’t! Audrey discovers that Baby Bendy and the Ink Demon are the same entity and seems to feel exactly nothing about this? She still supports ending the Ink Demon, even though he’s the little cartoon devil she made friends with and said she didn’t want to hurt… it just seems like there should at least be a conflicted feeling somewhere. The Ink Demon himself is portrayed as Just Evil, and nothing challenges that, to a level that’s so bizarre that it really feels like the NARRATIVE ITSELF is baffled by the idea that anyone might question the basic idea of "Scary Demon Bad, Cute Bendy Good". And I’ve talked before about how strange Joey’s final speech comes across once you notice this, as he brushes the Demon off as an “evil face” while telling Audrey how special and perfect and loved she is, and the whole moment is framed as though we’re meant to be encouraged by Joey, and not wincing at the way he disregards the demon he mistreated and abandoned.

The Ink Demon has been regarded as a soulless, monstrous mistake by various characters throughout this whole series, locked up and now literally, unambiguously tortured because of it, and it’s easy to imagine the story that assertion suggests – one where the Ink Demon’s cruelty is the result of him being cast out and treated with disgust by humans, like Mewtwo or some kind of inky Frankenstein. But in BatDR, we never see any hint that the initial reading of “monstrous mistake” is incorrect. As if locking him up was the correct, smart thing to do, and creating Baby Bendy to trap him and cause him pain was a good move, and the only problem is that it can’t be made permanent.

I think the closest we get to seeing something more from the Demon is his line to Audrey about being a mistake and a monster, “like me.” I really like his speech in that scene… He could simply be trying to manipulate her, but it’s so easy to read as projection, as if the only way the Ink Demon could reveal his own betrayed feelings is by accusing someone else of them. And then… nothing really comes of it. Everyone continues regarding the Demon as a purely evil monster. When the Ink Demon lashes out at Joey, it’s not framed as a reaction to being rejected so explicitly, it’s just… trying to stop him because Joey’s getting through to the Demon’s intended prey (with bonus points for "the wretch is mine" making him feel particularly scummy). You can still imagine he’s motivated by those things, but I really feel like you have to come into the story with that assumption in order to see it there.

This isn’t saying that the Demon has to not be a bad guy for his characterisation to be compelling – like, for example, Audrey could just have a short moment of realising that if Bendy IS the Ink Demon, there must be more to the Demon than we can see – but decide he’s too dangerous to risk giving up the chance to stop him (WHICH SURE WOULD BE INTERESTING GIVEN THE TRAJECTORY OF HER FATHER’S LIFE, HUH). He can still be a violent monster who is creepy at Audrey, tries to kill her, lies to her, and then eats(???) her. He doesn’t have to behave sympathetically for the narrative to acknowledge that he’s been treated unfairly, and the other characters don’t have to give him a chance at redemption in order to be believably good people. But it feels weird that…. the narrative never seems to notice??? Anywhere???? ESPECIALLY AFTER MENTIONING THE TORTURE EXPERIMENTS??? I think Malice’s writing in this game was incoherent, but the narrative’s treatment of her was humane; she’s violent and cruel and has to be stopped, but the character who keeps having to drive a sword through her torso still feels for her and notices her pain. It’s bafflingly wild that Audrey never really gets a moment like this for the demon.

[esther-dot]

i'm a sansa stan first and foremost, and i tried to ship s@nsan so hard lmaooo but when they start saying shit like "sansa has wet dreams about the hound" and "sansa actually likes older men", argh, i just can't. do. that. i know george said something about playing with it in the books, but i also think that he wanted to raise a few questions with the relationship, one of them being "who protects sansa from her protector?". like, there's TRAUMA in there. it's funny that they accuse jonsas of using sansa as a self-insert bc i don't know if you ever read a s@nsan fic or saw the fanarts, but they REALLY wanna bang that man 😭

(about this ask)

Nothing in the fandom horrifies me as much as Sansan. I’ve had nice Sansans come into my inbox, so I do distinguish between my feelings about the ship and the shippers, but I hate the reinterpretation of the Hound because it minimizes what he did/tried to do to Sansa. Instead of the later scenes where Sansa thinks of him being about her processing the trauma of his assault, suddenly, they become a gross villain whitewashing, victim-blamey, “actually, she wanted it.”

I once even highlighted that whole "who will protect us from the guards" idea you mention because I think it was meant to emphasize what a travesty the Hound’s assault was:

(link)

This isn’t a romance, this is a pattern. The Hound saves her than tries to rape her, Tyrion is kind to her then agrees to marry her, a child, a prisoner of his family, and LF rescues her but then starts to sexually molest her. All the same, in each of these instances, Sansa is grateful, she thinks kindly of them, and I think that says a lot about Sansa that you completely miss if you romanticize it and pretend that the Hound is someone, something to her, that he isn’t. I also talk about the whole cloak thing in that post too because I think the more contextualized reading is the one we’re meant to adopt.

When I did take a look at the meta, I was so creeped out by the nature of it and the art. Although, I want to give credit where it’s due. Apparently they were some of the first people to start taking Sansa seriously and created the reading of Sansa becoming a political factor, so they did change the fandom’s perception of Sansa in a good way. But imo their love of the Hound causes an imbalance in how they read their scenes. The point isn't that the Hound wouldn't have hurt Sansa, the point was that he very well might have but Sansa's actions stopped him which ties into a much bigger idea and important aspect of Sansa's story:

Even after the Hound assaults Sansa, later, she thinks of how terrifying the fire was, as in, even then, she is able to empathize with him, the man who held a knife to her throat and threatened to kill her. It’s laughable to suggest a man who mocked her relentlessly for who she was is capable of the same consideration. In fact, it is in a state of terror that the Hound attempts to rape Sansa and his fans use that to excuse his actions, and yet, while he is assaulting her, Sansa sings of mercy, gently touches his cheek. It’s almost like the very obvious interpretation, that the way to create a better world is Sansa’s method— not his— is what Martin expected people to understand, and his surprise people have turned it into something else altogether is genuine. (link)

As for Martin admitting he "played" with it, here's a clip. It's very short, and he's expressing surprise that his female readers like villains of which the Hound is one, and I think you can tell by his facial expression that the idea of the Hound and Sansa as a couple, is absolutely not where he ever intended to take things, not what he meant when he said he played with it. There are countless old monster movies with the monster being fascinated with a young girl or beautiful woman which humanizes him/shows a soft side. That's similar to Beauty and the Beast, the girl is what allows the monster to become human again, but in these variations, it isn't a romance. You can play with/reference tropes and ideas without it actually being a direct reiteration of the original story.

Anyway, filter and block and curate your fandom experience! 😅

[opinated-user]

Oh for god's sake, Lily' decided that what the world really needed was her wading into Ao3 discourse. If Lily was really interested in why Ao3 has fundraisers, she could look at the budget that is made publicly available. But no! We have to just assume the OTW is asking for all this money for embezzlement or lawsuits for when they're inevitably sued for being evil.

It's so stupid and then she turns around and says that Ao3 is a barely functioning website and that FF.net is superior. FF.net... the site infamous for randomly taking down fics, having extremely contradictory rules for what they'll host (including banning such innocuous things as song fics and character submission fics), putting adds in the middle of fanfics and being barely able to load on mobile anymore, that's the superior fanfiction site we should all be using instead because it, *checks notes*, is funded by selling users data to advertisers rather than by voluntary donations.

(All of this, of course, without mentioning the obvious hypocrisy of Lily using Ao3 for her fanfics because she knows more people use the site, so she'll get more views than if it was put on FF.net)

some while back i mentioned that LO is fully ignorant of fandom history when she talked about how everyone demonizes anne rice unfairly because she "didn't want smut of her character" and stuff like this proves it even further. do you all know why A03 needs the money? in case authors decide to sue them for their fanfics because, in case LO didn't realize this, fanfictions are technically illegal, just like fanart and literally any other fanwork using a IP they don't have the rights to. all those people who sell fan made merch? all the people who accept donations or money for writing commisions about that ship you like? they all walk a very thin line of legality where people have gotten in trouble for in the past. anne rice actually threatened legal actions against people for publishing any kind of fanfic, not just smut. the reason why ffnet also deleted works was exactly because they took that seriously and thus, if your work ever happens to displease an author for whatever reason, they will take you out because that's easier than dealing with someone with actual power to sue them. A03 was made out of this environment as a way to protect authors, so nobody ever have to be scared of their work being taken down like that. you can have all the issues of the world with the content, the moderation, the fandom itself, but if you want to have a problem with it, at least understand what is actually meant to be for and why it is like that. otherwise you simply do not have a leg to stand on. not to mention, as you very well point out, a website that is completely free to use and remains ads free while being used by thousands of users every day is going to be inherently expensive. just having a normal website as a portafolio if you are an artist already cost a good bunch. LO has no idea what she's talking about. more news at 11.

[emilykaldwen]

Shop talk!! Where did the inspiration for Abby as a character come from? Are there any characters or people who have inspired what makes her ✨her✨? And how do she and Aegon compliment each other?

(apologies, this came in after I went to bed and then I spent the last five hours driving across three states)

Oooh! I haven't gotten an ask like this in so long and I forget there are new people who might be interested!!!

(@selfproclaimedunicorn did the first Abby fanart! and @murmel-malt did this one for xmas!)

So in Fire & Blood, it's stated that Lyonel Strong became Master of Laws when Viserys took the throne, brought his sons Harwin and Larys and two maiden daughters to serve as Rhaenyra's ladies. So Abby was originally a friend of Rhaenyra and Alicent, and stayed by Alicent's side when she became queen because show-wise, Alicent is so fucking isolated. Like it HURTS to see how isolated she is, and I wanted her to have a friend, and someone who would try to be peacemaker between the two.

Right from the start, Abby was always meant to be kind. She's what I call proto-Sansa Stark: just embodying a lot of the traditional ladylike qualities I would always see Sansa getting lambasted for. I really wanted to create a character who could be kind and strong and that be just as valid as someone scheming or good with a sword. I wanted to write a girly-girl to embrace that femininity that I rejected as a teenager cause yay internalized misogyny!

But man, lemme tell you, I was struggling with her. I had this framework, but I didn't have a story for her. Frankly, for awhile, I thought that Alicent might encourage her to marry Otto for protection or something. I just didn't know what was going to happen to her.

So I decided to try roleplay her in some roleplay groups and toss her against other characters and see what I could come up with. It's something I've always done with original characters and I wasn't committed to writing a fic yet. and then my friend Ramses goes 'what if we did an AU and you throw her at Aegon?' (so age down Abby so her and Aegon are the same age vs her being his mother's age) because the type of character she was, she might be good with Aegon.

And then... the rest is history. Putting Abby against Aegon basically unlocked that third eye and suddenly Abby's story and her place in the world of Westeros clicked: She's someone the Team Green kids needed.

With Abby, Helaena could have a friend her age who accepted her for who she was, Aemond had a nerdy friend who enjoyed books, and Aegon? Aegon had a friend who always supported him, who he got to play conquering hero to her damsel in the games they'd play as children. a young!Abby took one look at the wet eyed cat boy and immediately went I'll love you and I'll show you how wonderful I think you are.

Aegon and Abby are definitely foils for each other. Abby thinks of others first, Aegon doesn't. He goes in on himself in his melancholy, she goes outside of herself. They are both desperate to please in their own ways, they are incredibly hungry for love. They are both outsiders in their worlds, and alone except for each other. Abby has the patience that Aegon needs, and Aegon has the ego to push Abby to be more 'selfish' and look out for herself more. In Abby, Aegon can take care of someone, he can look outside of himself and be there for someone. In Aegon, Abby can let herself be cared for. There's patience and there's drive, there's possessiveness and feralness from both of them. Both of these kids are unwell, Abby just... masks it better? It's not as obvious? (she's named for an Asshai blood priestess and is heiress to the haunted castle of your nightmares my happy sunshine baby is not well)

As for characters that inspired her and make her HER, the number one is very much Tohru Honda from Fruits Basket. Fruba is one of my favorite stories of all time, and it's a story about the cycle of abuse and generational trauma, and Tohru is the sunshine bubbly light girl... who is hiding her own grief and guilt at the loss of her mother. The fear that finding happiness again meaning she'd forgotten/lost her mother. And she takes on everyone's pain but does not share her own. And that always really resonated with me. It's very real. And it's a story that resonated to me along with Sansa's that I could appreciate as I was older.

I'm so sorry there's SO MUCH RAMBLING and I have no idea if this makes any sense. I don't know if I talk about Abby enough - I'm not used to getting questions about her LOL so thank you for this!

[palabraasinnecesarias]

You probably heard of the planed ranma remake. What's your opinion? Any hopes for the new adaptation? Things you're scared about?

hi!<3 my friend, i very much did hear about the ranma remake! for obvious reasons, i'm ecstatic! ranma has been a part of my life a little over half of it, and seeing the series be the talk atm is so nice! there's sm fanart, and written pieces, and so many edits, i get so excited lol there's new fans, more discourse (whether that's good or ugly), im just hoping it brings the existence of ranma to newcomers in a positive light!

im hoping that it stays true to its colors, yk. the series is meant to be a comedy, with a tad of seriousness here and there that helps develop the storyline. (although there are some characters im not so fond of, and truthfully the story would flourish well without, im sure it'll stay as is.) i really, really want there to be new arcs!! obviously we'll have the introduction arcs, but (having in mind how many eps/seasons we'll be given) without fillers, i hope they consider the new arcs we didn't get to see get adapted.

pls pls pls i want my akane baby to be adapted well! let her be strong and witty and confident and sweet and just as she is in the manga! (i also really wanna see ranma hold akane's body as he painfully and profoundly confesses his love to her hehehe...it's okay, they get a happy ending at the end.)

there's not much im scared about tbh bc everything that has been said about the series ranma has already been expressed...either people like it or they dont...rumiko has expressed how much she loves ranma 1/2, and sm of her went into it, you really cant make everyone happy. but this is a great opportunity to give it a second chance!

rumiko loves ranma, and im sure she's going to guide it as best to make herself and fans happy.<3<3<3 thanks you so, so much for the ask!!

how do you feel about the remake? what are some things you're hoping to see?

[slytherhys]

After Midnight

A/N: Happy Elriel Month, everyone! I was so excited when @nitecourtfairytail & @elainsweetcobalt reached out and asked if I could write a fic for the INCREDIBLE FANART she commissioned for the "Happy Solstice" Prompt - so of course I said yes.

Prompt: Happy Solstice

AO3 - Enjoy!

The log cabin stood like a mirage against the snow-covered floor of the mountain, soft, warm lights flickering as if something – someone – disturbed them every now and then.

The first sight of the wooden cottage had almost sent Azriel sprawling onto the snow, mainly as he dove from the skies and landed with enough force to do so. But even as his knees buckled, he could focus on nothing but the familiar silhouette that moved against the light. Could think of nothing but his hands on her hips, of his lips on her neck as she writhed on top of him, bringing both to oblivion.

The biting cold was a mere whisper against his wings, the howling of the wind a distant memory as Azriel carefully unlocked the door, his throat suddenly too tight as he looked around, noting the dimmed lights and the sweet rosy scent that nearly made him groan.

Yet Elain was nowhere to find.

Flames danced in the large hearth of the fireplace, the only source of light inside the empty room. An empty wine glass had gone forgotten on the coffee table; the wine bottle next to it already half-way gone. A pair of familiar shoes had been carelessly discarded by the loveseat, where a blanket was rumpled against the maroon cushions.

He was late – he was so fucking late. When he had told Elain she’d have to wait a bit for him, he had never meant any longer than 10 minutes, but with Rhysand’s suspicious glances and Cassian drinking entirely too much, he had ended up staying 30 minutes with his brothers, sharing a bottle of champagne to celebrate another year spent together.

Azriel’s eyes flickered to the darkened hallway, his leathers suddenly feeling too tight, his skin too hot. His knees nearly gave away.

There, pieces of clothing laid on the floor, carelessly discarded on the wooden boards in a trail that led him exactly where his entire body craved to be. He could hear the faint sounds of water, a soft voice humming that heated his blood. Azriel walked in further, loosening his leathers as he followed the trail of pretty garments she had left behind.

A lavender dress, a white knee-sock, a pair of blue satin panties…

He loved his brothers, but for the first time in his life, he’d been more than fine forgoing their usual celebrations.

Steam curled as it rose from under the door leading to the bathing room, a dance so like his shadows’ that Azriel couldn’t help but smirk a little. Unlacing his boots, he dropped them unceremoniously on the ground, softly pushing the door open as his heart kicked up a beat.

For a second, it was as if he had entered a new reality – the air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and ginger, the steam stroking his skin like a sensual caress.

Azriel felt his breath catch.

At the centre of the sunken tub stood Elain, her back to him. Her golden-brown hair was pulled up, revealing the very same neck that had starred in so many of his fantasies. From the waist down, her body was covered by the warm water, her sinful curves not any less obvious than what they had been just last night when she had ridden him in her own bedroom. Her hands lapped her own skin in some kind of golden oil, and Azriel felt it like a phantom touch on his own skin.

He knew what that touch would feel like. Knew her hands – scarred, from her gardening – would be rougher than what they looked, but never less kind; never less curious. A touch so uniquely hers, he knew nothing could ever compare. He had never shied away from it – couldn’t even if he tried.

“You’re late.” She simply said, never once turning to fully face him. How she had heard him come in, he wasn’t sure. But then again, he too always knew whenever she was around.

“Forgive me.” He said, his voice hoarse. Elain turned, giving him a full view of what he had missed for 30 fucking minutes. She simply smiled; her big brown eyes entirely too innocent for how sinful she looked. Surrounded by steam, skin glistening against the pale moonlight that painted the room silver – she was a goddess incarnate.

It was all he could do not to drop to his knees.

Azriel swallowed, his eyes never leaving her own as he peeled his leathers away from his body, a small smirk on his lips as he tilted his head and dropped them to the floor. He knew how she liked when he took over - how wet she got whenever he teased and punished her. An illusion, all of it. If there was anyone coming undone, it was him, and they both knew it.

Still, Azriel peeled away his leathers with a predator's grace - lethal, dangerous. Elain’s lips parted, a shaky breath leaving them as her eyes darkened, following the movements of his hands as he fully undressed. 

“Did you start without me, love?” He wondered if she was aware she was moving closer to the edge of the tub, that in no time she’d be by his feet, looking up at him with that pretty blush painting her cheeks. He hardened just from anticipation.

Before she could reply, he was entering the tub, his clothes long forgotten on the floor behind him. Elain yelped, trying to step away before he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against his own body. 

The warmth of her skin against his nearly made his eyes roll to the back of his head in relief, the press of her wet skin against his hard member making them both release a shaky breath. Azriel dropped his head low, pressing a sweet kiss against her cheek, her jaw, her neck.

“You were late.” She rasped, as she tried to push him away.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” 

“I missed you.”

Azriel pulled her chin softly, pressing his lips against hers oh so slowly. “Let me make it up to you.” He murmured against her mouth, revelling in the goosebumps that immediately covered her exposed skin. He felt, rather than saw, Elain melt against his touch, her body moulding to his as if it had memorised the way they came together, night after night.

His hands reached for her thighs, grabbing her so they wrapped around his waist. Azriel found the urge to enter her warmth, to fuck her against the wall as she clawed at his back, moaning his name as she came around his cock.

But tonight, there would be no sneaking out. Azriel wouldn’t have to leave her bedroom before dawn, Elain wouldn’t have to ask him to stay, only to hear the very same reply he gave her every single night. That they couldn’t; that it was better to have this in secret, than have nothing at all.

For the first time in weeks, they were in no hurry – and fuck if he wasn’t going to take his time with her.

They already had dinner, they’d exchanged gifts and danced for hours. Now, everyone was entirely too busy celebrating Solstice together to wonder where they had both disappeared to.

At least he hoped so – because nothing short of death would stop him from having Elain tonight.

He set her down on the edge of the tub, gently parting her thighs wider as his eyes roamed her body. He kissed her once, twice, smiling as she whined when he pulled away.

“Lay down, love.”  He asked, licking his lips as Elain bit her own, falling back on her elbows as she watched him under hooded eyes. She raised her legs, gently resting them on his shoulders, knowing exactly what to do even as he nipped at her inner thigh.

“You’re a fucking dream.” He growled, and before Elain could answer, Azriel was pressing his tongue against her entrance, licking, and nipping as his hands caressed her legs. Elain moaned, one hand pulling at his hair as her hips moved recklessly against his face. Azriel could barely think as her scent and taste flooded his senses, his cock painfully hard as she begged for him.

“Don’t stop.” She pleaded, but he couldn’t even if he tried. She was addicting – the taste of her arousal on his tongue, the sinful whimpers coming out of her lips as her legs started quivering around his ears.

“Needy girl.” He growled, pushing two fingers inside her, curling it just slightly in a move that made Elain’s back arch, her legs squeeze around his head. “Come for me, love.” He urged, pumping his fingers.

“Fuck.” She cried out as her hands pulled at his hair, her pussy clenching around his fingers. It was all he could do not to come right there and then, watching Elain fall apart.

Azriel licked her once more, enjoying the shiver that ran through her body. He couldn’t stop touching her skin, couldn’t stop pressing his lips against her hip, her belly, her breasts. Elain was panting, eyes heavy-lidded and a loopy smile on her lips as she looked down at him. Azriel smiled back.

“Better, love?” He rasped, making Elain sit as she bit her lip. He reached up to lick it, simply because he could.

She sighed, her hands playing with his hair as she looked down at him with a thoughtful expression. “You were very late.” She said as she scooted closer to the edge. Azriel laughed, the sound deep and joyous as he held her hips in place, even as she tried to get back into the tub.

Elain frowned, a silent question in her eyes as she watched him. But Azriel simply kissed her deeply, stealing her from any doubt. “Not here, love.” and he kissed her again, denying her any complaints.

In one quick move, he climbed out of the tub, pulling her with him as he sat down on the wooden benches. His hands trailed down her curves, helping Elain rise as she straddled his lap. 

She smiled nervously. “What are you doing?” She asked, breathless.

Azriel kissed her, his hand holding her chin in place as he said, “I want to see all of you when you take me.” And he kissed her, his tongue licking at her lips, asking for permission.

It didn’t take long until Elain’s tongue was exploring his mouth, her soft sighs and moans a divine symphony playing just for his ears. His hands were exploring her naked body freely, painting trails of water along each curve and dip of skin. Azriel was gloating over the trail of goosebumps following each fingertip of his. 

Elain’s hips rocked against his own, her sex gliding over his cock. causing them both to moan at the feeling, each more eager for their joining than the other. Azriel softly pushed her away, his lips trailing kisses down her cheek and to her neck, his tongue swiping on the sensitive skin before biting into it. Elain’s whimper made him shudder in anticipation, his cock throbbing between them. His mouth found her breast, while his left hand massaged the other. He started sucking on her tits, biting softly at the sensitive skin, making Elain drop her head back as he nibbled at the rosy flesh.

“Azriel, fuck.” She moaned.

Azriel pulled away, a wicked smirk on his lips. The way her body responded to his touch was the closest thing to heaven Azriel had ever experienced. “Such a dirty little mouth, love.”

She held onto him with only her left arm, her body still flush against him, as her other hand wrapped around his cock, slowly pumping it as Azriel continued to tease her nipples.

He squeezed her ass before pulling one of his hands away and grabbing her neck softly, making her look up to his eyes, a pleading look on her face.

“I know, love.” He licked her bottom lip before kissing her hard, his cock brushing against her centre once again. She whimpered, clawing at his back, and bringing him closer to her body. 

“Don’t go gentle on me.” she whispered, her voice weak and pleading. 

And so he didn’t. 

Azriel grabbed the shaft of his cock and aligned it with Elain’s glistening pussy, slowly rubbing it against her. They both released moans of pleasure, and before Elain could even open her eyes, Azriel was inside her, long and deep, stretching her taut around his length. She gasped as he stopped breathing, all his strength focused on not coming inside her right there and then.

A whimper broke off her lips as he slammed his hips against hers. With Elain straddling him, he was able to reach every deep spot inside her. His fingers found their way to her slick folds, rubbing them as she clenched around his cock. Elain started to move her hips too, her body following his as she whimpered, her lips pressed against his shoulders.

“Just like that, love.” He rasped, lips parted against her ear. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

“Azriel.” She gasped, as he snaked his arms under her knees, pulling her up and down his length.

“Do you know-” he captured her lips. “-I spent the entire time I was away dreaming of being inside you?” his hips moved in long, rolling strokes, her calloused hands pulling at his hair, clawing at his neck. He pulled her hair away from her face, looking into her eyes even as he thrust inside of her. “You make me lose my mind, Elain.”

He raised her hips again, lifting them so that only the tip was wrapped in her warmth, letting gravity bring her back down, over, and over, and over. Each brutal stroke was a reminder that they were real, that he had her in his arms, on his cock. That they were simply inevitable. “What would they say if they saw you like this Elain?” He asked, arms never faltering as he raised her up and brought her down his cock. Elain’s skin flushed scarlet, a soft moan falling from her pretty lips at his dirty words.  “Look at you, love.” He rasped, his own body nearly giving in as he felt her tremble around him. “You’re desperate for me.”

He kept the pace of his fingers even as her hips moved faster, her entire body shaking from her effort.

“You look so beautiful around my cock.” He groaned as he felt her clench at his words; his own voice breathless as he felt his stomach heat. “Come for me, love.” He pleaded against her lips, a broken man for her alone. “Be a good girl for me.”

And it was all it took for Elain to cry out, loud enough for it to be heard across the mountain. Her pussy clenched around his cock hard enough to make him see stars. Azriel thrust harder into her, the world around them disappearing as he came inside of her with a shaky breath, his hips pressing hard into hers as he spilled inside her.

Azriel kept thrusting, his hips moving slowly as they both rode out their highs. Elain was still holding on to his neck, peppering his mouth with kisses, even as Azriel laid down on the bench with a groan, her body never pulling away from his.

They made no move to leave, her fingers drawing circles on his chest as Azriel felt himself return to earth. Elain chuckled, eyeing him with mirth glinting in her eyes. She looked so beautiful he felt his chest cave in. 

Azriel smiled softly, brushing her hair away from her face. “What?”

“If Rhysand and Cassian ever find out what we did in here…” she chuckled, the sound warming his skin. 

“They’d kick me out for a century.” He smiled softly, pressing a kiss to her lips.

Elain eyed him carefully. “Worth it?” She asked in a small voice.

He would never be able to explain just how much - not that it would stop him from trying. “There has never been anything worth more than you, love.”

[iskinpeople]

can we have a fem reader x Stan crimson band one shot? Love ya work

Of course, Anon!! I even added something a little special... <3

───────ೋღ ♡ ღೋ───────

Stan Marsh x Fem!Reader

Title: 'The song of love'

Genre: One shot

Fanart Links!: https://pin.it/4K4EPy6FX https://pin.it/IXP8p5Z9E

I stood there watching my boyfriends performance, he was always a good singer. At least in my eyes. I always supported him in his work and fixed what was needed, he loved me for it, I think he just liked my support since his parents or sister never really gave it to him. Today though, backstage he was talking to me about a surprise he had for me, "I promise you'll love it! Or at least I hope you do, I worked hard on this..." he mumbled the last part, "I promise it'll be fine, Stanny. I'll love it even if it's...Well bad," It came out ruder than I wanted it to but I meant it in the nicest way possible. "If it is bad, promise me you won't leave me for it..." he said looking down then having his eyes slowly peer up at me...Those beautiful honey brown eyes of his. I smiled, "Promise," I said. Before turning to the door that leads out to the crowd of what may be, hundreds of women, some men. I gave Stan a kiss and then left.

I watched as my boyfriends band was called on stage next. Most of the women in the crowd started cheering and jumping. I just cheered, saved me from getting teased by Stan later. Stan's black hair was slightly peaking out from his hat making him look emo, which I giggled at. His band played a few heavy songs which I hummed to since...Well I helped write the damn thing. Until there was a song I wasn't quite familiar with...The heavy metal was toned down a bit...I just stared at Stan in confusion. He looked back at me then smirked. 'This was his gift? A surprise song? Fun...' I thought, until...He started to sing. This was a love song. My heart started to beat and I felt my face flush. Half way through the song he made eye contact with me...Then reached his hand out, which I obviously took...He continued to sing for a few minutes, holding onto me like how a boyfriend would...Until he got off and got on one knee. I tilted my head in confusion until he pulled out a velvet box. My heart dropped, not out of fear but...Excitement. He smiled at me, before the song came to an instrumental and he handed his mic to Kenny, which Kenny held to his mouth. I looked at Kenny and saw the very obvious smile under his parka. I looked back at Stan who started to speak and open the box, "Y/N...You've been the love of my life, my ride or die, my support for about...4 years now and honestly...I cannot thank you enough...So...Y/N L/N, Will you marry me?" he said as it echoed through the speakers along with the soft instrumental music. I teared up. Who wouldn't? This man...Was my everything. Kenny brought the mic up to my lips as I processed what was happening. "Yes..." I said, my voice laced with happiness. He smiled, put the ring on my finger before lifting that hand up in the air as the crowed cheered. He kept me on stage as he continued to sing to me. I could now awe him not as my boyfriend anymore...But as my fiancé.