Angus Newman In My AU! Y'know...the Lazy Toy Maker..? The One Shawn Despises (Batdr)

And since I know I promised you guys a Jack:

Please like this or reblog! (Who knows maybe I'll make more comics :O)

I worked really hard on it ^ ^u

BEAUTIFUL <3333

I'm alive I swear. 🥴

"Whatcha looking at, Henry?"

(Decided to redesign Sammy just a bit)

I was originally going to draw Susie fro my Au, but because I didn't have a ref with me on my trip, I decided to redesign Constance from The Lost Ones and Rose from Fade to Black.

It's cannon in my au that Rose does jazz hands and can be flirty. It is also canon in my au that Constance still wears dresses to please her family (poor Constance).

I also broke Alice's poor arms in this doodle of her.... D:

DON'T FORGET TO VOTE FOLKS! :D

The man froze, "glancing" at his chest. He coughed, already flickering in and out. The lights above flickering once more, dimming when the man winced.

His hand went to his chest, blood already soaking his fingers with a new layer of red. He shook his head, trying to regain focus as he stood up, swaying a little. "Damn...why is it always the chest or the lights..."

He snapped his head at Ray and lunged once more, struggling as he tugged the scissors back.

One last final buzz of the lights and-

Crack.

The light bulb overheated, causing it to shatter.

The man pressed the palms of his hands to his empty eye sockets, hissing in pain as he fell to his knees. "No, no, no, NO! Not again...ow.....I can't fucking lose. I WON'T FUCKING LOSE! YOU CAN'T BURY ME AGAIN! YOU CAN'T!"

His hands drop to his sides, blood pouring out even more out of his empty sockets, the man wiped his face furiously.

Confused, hurt, angry and desperate.

The studio was quiet. There weren’t many people left, most having returned home by now. There was a background noise of groaning pipes and creaking floorboards as Ray walked down the hallway.

He had left his isolate office space in favor of a cup of coffee and some more paper, which somehow the storyboarding department lacked.

He was nearing the elevator, and mulled over whether the risk of the thing was worth not having to use the stairs.

~ @w-graves-nook

The hallway lights buzzed and flickered above. The air smelled stale, but oddly had a copperish tint to it. The floorboards groaned, always causing the worries of breaking.

The friendly posters and cut outs just seemed dull, almost sickening. The cheerfulness just not being what it used to be.

The air suddenly grew cold, like a cool draft coming in, even with no windows being in the premises. The feeling of dread was being tight in the air as it was almost overwhelming.

A loud clang could be heard as an abandoned type writer had been thrown off of a supply crate, causing metal to scatter into parts.

The feeling of being watched was sudden.

And the air was tense.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Hudson didn’t look up from his typewriter, his dark eyes narrowed as he blew a strand of hair out of his face. As his fingers gracefully glossed over the keys, striking at the correct letter to collect and form into sentences.  His eyes darted left and right, letters swishing back and forth in his vision. Papers were stacked next to him on the floor while his back was hunched over. 

The pipes above him hissed, ink dripping down into a puddle a few feet around him. It rippled, distorting the light that reflected in the black inky surface. The shelves around him blocked his view of the hallway as they held boxes filled with reels. 

The room smelled of ink, crisp paper and also dampened wood. 

Hudson’s fingers abruptly paused, hovering over the keys. He ripped off the paper carefully, wary of tearing it. He set the typewriter down on the ground and gazed at his completed script. Only for his face to twist in a look of disgust.

The words had been typed far too quickly causing a calamity of spelling errors and unfinished words. Words had also been smudged due to the ink not being given time to dry off. Hudson’s teeth bared as he let out his hiss of frustration. 

Another hour. Another script. Another mistake. Another headache.

Then he heard something. The sound of a little thud while little feet followed after the sound. Then a clink of a glass.

Hudson stiffened, his eyes narrowing while his shoulders tensed up. He slowly got up, his tired eyes darting suspiciously from left to right. His pale hands reached for an empty glass bottle that sat next to him. The bottle already collecting dust. With paranoia and something much darker. He crept forward, the bottle ready to strike if needed to.  

Then he heard it. A giggle.

He swung his head, his grip tightening around the bottle. Before he could strike, he stopped himself. The sound of little shoes hitting the wooden boards. Poking his head out, he saw a little girl.

She looked to be about six years old, no less. Her floral pale pink dress hung neatly on her frame, swishing around with each movement. Her hair was charcoal black, silky and draped over her shoulders. She was holding a glass jar in one hand, the other grasping a metal lid and screw band.  

Then there was a small flicker of movement and the girl let out a gasp of excitement. Finally, Hudson’s eyes focused on what the girl seemed to be looking at. 

A moth. It wasn’t too big, its wings fluttered with a blur of pale white and birch brown.  Before Hudson could think about what to do next, the little girl dashed forward, the jar swinging in her hand as she tried to capture the moth. The moth saw her movements and fluttered towards the light bulb above, providing itself a safe distance from the girl. 

The girl let out a grunt as she leaned on to her tippy toes, her heel leaving the ground. Her green eyes glistened with determination. However, the moth was out of her reach, slowly crawling over the warm bulb as if to mock the child. 

Hudson abandoned the dusty glass bottle on the nearest shelf, his mind calming itself and reassuring that the child was no threat.  He took a step closer, coming into the light.

Before he could speak, the little girl swung her head over to him. The heels of her shoes landed smoothly on the wooden floor. Her green eyes scanned him, before an enthusiastic smile crept through her lips. “Could you help me, sir?” She asked, her voice young and innocent. 

Hudson blinked, taking a wary step closer. He paused, collecting his scattered thoughts, before quietly answering, “I suppose so.” He gave a little nod, his hand reaching out gently for the jar.  

The girl gave an excited little bounce on her feet. She gave him the jar with an eager smile, her little fingers releasing her grip on the jar as it was secured in the young man’s grasp. “Thanks, sir! That pesky moth is a little too high up for me to catch it,” She explained, which ended in a little giggle.

Hudson gave a quick nod, his eyes flickering over to the moth. The naked light bulb stung his eyes, but he didn’t flicker his gaze away from the moth. No matter how much the light burned his eyes. 

He narrowed his eyes, before swinging the jar in an attempt to capture the moth. The jar hit the light bulb and caused it to swing, while the moth fled. Hudson felt a tiny spark of irritation, but didn’t back down. He carefully walked over to the poster that the moth had landed on curiously. His eyes had a predatory gleam as he crept closer then sprung forward with the jar outstretched. 

“I caught it!” Hudson yelled in surprise, his eyes widening in his victory. “Holy sh-”, he trailed off, glancing at the little girl. “Holy sheep,” He corrected himself, flatly. 

The little girl clapped her hands together, her eyes brightening while she rushed over to see the newly captured moth. “You caught it! You caught it!” She cheered excitedly. 

The moth tried desperately to flee, hitting the walls of the clear glass jar, but to no use as Hudson quickly screwed on the jar’s metal lid. After securing it, he passed it to the little girl with a faint smile. “You gonna name it?” He asked, gesturing to the moth. 

The little girl stared at the moth, grasping the jar and tilting it slightly. “I’m gonna name it Dusty!” She declared, tilting her head up proudly. She tore her gaze away from the jar and up at the young man. “What’s your name, sir?” She asked, smiling innocently at him.

Hudson blinked slowly, a little taken back. He took a step into the dark, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh….It’s…Hudson,”  He murmured, looking a little reluctant. The name sounded a little loose on his tongue. He cleared his throat awkwardly, adjusting his tie. It had been a long time since anyone had asked him his name. Or cared. 

The girl beamed, a strand of her black hair tickling her forehead and nose. Her green eyes settled on Hudson. “I’m Fiona! My Daddy’s working right now, so I figured I’d explore! Whatcha doing here, anyway?” She asked, tilting her head.

Hudson rested his hands in his pockets, shifting slightly. He motioned to the typewriter, sitting on the dark and dusty floor. “Writing.” He muttered, his dull dark eyes avoiding Fiona’s bright cheerful ones. He retreated back to the shadows, sliding down the wall and crossing his legs over. He reached for the typewriter and settled it down on his lap, used to its weight. 

Fiona blinked slowly, the jar clutched tightly to her chest. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the scattered papers littering around the man. Without a word, she set the jar carefully on a second shelf, giving it a pat, before crouching down and picking up the discarded papers. Her small hands reached for each one as her knees were on the floor to support her. 

Hudson paused, looking up from his typewriter. His dishevelled hair trickled to his face, covering part of his face. He combed it with his fingers, before his lips parted, “Hey…you know you don’t have to do that, right? It’s just papers, kid. Nobody cares for them.”  His eyes softened as he watched the girl continue to collect the papers. Her floral dress brushed up against dust. 

Fiona lifted her head, her hair covering half her face, like midnight obscured it. “I care,” She said simply, her green eyes glancing at the man. She scanned his features.  The man looked wary, his shoulders tensed beneath his dull white shirt. His tie was poorly done, while his collar was slightly dishevelled.  His dark brown hair was in the same state while his eyes seemed strained for some reason. “Were you in a rush? Sometimes, when I’m in a rush to go to school, I accidentally put on my dress backwards,” she said, a small spark of sympathy. 

Hudson stared down at his typewriter, his hands resting on his sides. He didn’t know what to say. What was the nicest way of saying: “I think I’ve lost most of my sanity and I hardly take care of myself anymore”?   Hudson let out a sigh, his fingers now hovering over the keys. “Yes. I was in a rush,”  He lied, his tone flat. 

Fiona narrowed her eyes slightly, as if her child brain was sensing something was off. She shrugged and picked up the papers, collecting them and neatly stacked them. 

Hudson watched with a pang of surprise. As the child handed him the papers, his eyes softened. “Thanks…?” He raised an eyebrow, still looking mildly surprised. He took the stack and set it down next to him. 

Fiona scooted next to him, watching him with round eyes as the young man typed. She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, watching as sentences were brought to life in just a few taps of the typewriter. She observed how focused Hudson looked, his dark dull eyes narrowed as he crammed a paragraph in and how the tips of his pale fingers were stained with ink. It reminded her of her father. Hard-working and always putting effort in.  She smiled. 

Hudson’s fingers paused, finally taking notice of how close the little girl was and how her eyes lit up with awe. Hudson’s lips pressed together in a thin line, not quite sure what to say. Usually, he hated when people looked over his shoulder to see what he was typing. But those “people” had usually been adults and seniors. Adults and seniors who seemed to judge his process or method of writing. Who would only point out his mistakes instead of giving feedback on what he could do better.  

But this was a child. Yes, a random child, but a child with an open mind.  

He cleared his throat before Fiona could lean in any closer. “Say…..uh, kid, do..you wanna know how to make a paper plane?” He asked, looking a little awkward. He tore off the sheet of paper he was working on. It didn’t matter. It was probably another page filled with mistakes. Probably.

Fiona’s eyes lit up as she nodded her head vigorously. She eagerly took the sheet of paper from Hudson and gave him her full attention, her fingers itching to fold the paper. 

An hour had passed. An hour filled with wonder and laughter while paper planes flew, crumbled and had hit surfaces. The paper planes, who originally had been born as mistakes and frustration had now been folded into something fleeting, but joyful. There had been paper plane fights, while also a paper plane version of catch. It was childish, ridiculous and made them have a blast. 

Fiona giggled as Hudson placed down an empty trash can at the end of the room, making it a target. With the crisp paper plane between her index finger and thumb, she launched it and watched with anticipation as it flew.  She held her breath, but exhaled when the plane had hit only the rim of the can. She let out a groan, Hudson cheering in the background. She then shrugged, still having a good time.

She glanced at Hudson who was keeping score with just a pencil and a piece of scrap paper. She was almost taken back by the wistful look in his brown eyes. They weren’t dark or dull. They were bright and warm with a child’s playfulness. His eyes looked as if they hadn’t belonged to an adult, but a young boy. She smiled.

“Fiona?” A voice called out from behind, making Hudson and her turn their heads. 

Fiona brightened immediately while she dropped the plane and rushed towards her father, her dress swishing slightly with her movements.  “Daddy!” She opened her arms and was met with a warm embrace. Her father scooped her up and nuzzled her. His light stubble brushed against her face. She giggled. 

“There you are. I was wondering where you wandered off to,”  He chuckled, his dark eyes staring warmly at his bundle of sunshine. 

Fiona grinned, immediately sharing her story and giving him a full report of what she had encountered. Her green eyes lit up with each detail she spoke of and her grin only got wider with each detail her father listened to.  

Her father set her down gently, adjusting his glasses to meet the bridge of his nose. He paused, finally taking notice of the young man, who was sitting criss-crossed on the floor, still holding the scrap of paper. 

“So, you must be the brave and talented moth hunter I’ve been hearing about.” The older man chuckled, his eyes glistening with amusement. 

Hudson blinked, feeling like an outsider. “Uh ... .I don’t know about talented, “ He muttered, folding the scrap of yellowing paper and putting it in his pocket. He got up with a grunt and began to collect the wild paper planes, scattered throughout the floor. 

Fiona strayed from her father and began to help too. She carried a bundle of them in her arms, some poking at her skin. She eagerly put them in the trash with a look of triumph and pride. “There! All better!” She announced, her hands placed on her hips. 

Hudson let out a sound that resembled a quiet chuckle. He threw his share of paper planes, before grabbing the can and placing it in the corner. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his face heat up when his eyes met Fiona’s father’s warm gaze.

“Thanks for entertaining her. Must have taken a lot of work. My bundle of energy here can be a bit of a…handful.” The man chuckled, playfully messing up Fiona's black smooth hair. Fiona giggled, hugging her father’s middle while he put an arm around her.

Hudson awkwardly shifted. “Uh, it wasn’t that big of a deal. She’s…a good kid.” He then smiled slightly. “Besides, it’s not like I was getting much done anyway.”  His tone was joking, but there was an undertone of truth beneath the words. 

When a pause had hit between them, Hudson took a step closer, lending out his hand. “I’m…Hudson. Writer’s department,” He said, his voice steady, but his eyes a little uneasy.

The older man smiled, meeting the young man’s hand. “I’m Chris. Animation Department,” He explained, his tone friendly.  The two hands parted and Chris looked closer at the writer. Something about the young man’s appearance was concerning, but so subtle that Chris wasn’t quite sure what it was. He pushed the feeling down and just smiled at Hudson. “Pleasure to meet you, Hudson.” He said while feeling his daughter tug at the hem of his shirt, trying to gain his attention. 

Hudson’s eyes had a flicker of surprise, but was gone in a blink of an eye. “Likewise.” He mumbled, letting his hands rest in the pockets of his pants.  His gaze wandered to the shelf, before it landed on the glass jar. He slipped his hands out of his pockets and reached for the jar, his fingers touching the smooth cool glass. 

The moth had now settled to the bottom of the jar, its wings twitching. He carefully took the jar off the shelf and walked over to Fiona. He crouched down to meet her level and gave her the jar. “Can’t forget about Dusty,” He mumbled again, his eyes growing soft. 

Fiona giggled, her small fingers gripping the jar. “Thanks, Mister Hudson!”  She turned around and presented the jar to her father, who responded by giving her a thumbs-up. “Daddy, I’m hungry!”  She said, staring up at Chris with pleading eyes. 

Chris chuckled, patting Fiona on the back. “Alright, alright. Let’s get something to eat,”  he said. He turned around, his hand gently grasping Fiona’s. He motioned towards the entrance. “C’mon then.”   

Fiona hesitated, staying where she was. She threw Hudson a glance, who was standing closer to the shadows. She then tugged on Chris’s hand, a quiet plea for his attention. When Chris looked at her, Fiona carefully gave him the glass jar. “Hold this, please.” She then swung around, abandoning her father’s hand for a moment. She walked calmly to the shadows, only to wrap her arms around Hudson’s middle. “Thanks for everything, Mister Hudson,” she murmured. 

Hudson stiffened in her hold, but gave her a pat on the back. “Take care, kid. You’ve got quite the talent. Use it,” He muttered, his tired eyes soft. 

Hudson watched the two walk off, Fiona clutching the glass jar. He heard Fiona’s voice in the distance, chattering excitedly. 

The room felt empty now. Silence filling every surface of the room, only the occasional buzzing of the lights above and the floors creaking below. A sense of loneliness hit him hard in the gut. 

Tomorrow was July first. Canada day. His family would be celebrating back home.

Not him though.

He was far too gone for that. Too stuck in a blend of the tar of his frustration and the shards of his internal isolation. And was stuck in New York.

His throat burned. His mouth tasted bitter and salty while his eyes felt strained in the light above. He rubbed his temples with his hands and slipped back into the shadows of the room. He slid down the wall, retrieving the typewriter once more.

Ink splattering on the keys in a fluid motion.

Time for another hour. Another script. Another mistake. Another headache.

(This is a gift for: @creationandcalamityau )

I can relate to being bullied about my artwork as well and all I can say now is....SCREW THEM >:) I WILL DRAW TILL THE END OF LIFE!! But also thank you! I try my best.

Really love your art! KEEP IT UP!! >:D

*incoherent noises*

Why is everyone so nice to me?!? What the heck😭😭😭😭

Thank you so much!! Also the same definitely goes for you too! Your art is great!

( :^)

CAN ALL MY MOOTS SHOW ME THEIR SONAS?/nf 👉👈

(I need them for a drawing '3')✨✨

Hudson let out a chuckle, still fiddling with the lighter.

A small smile came creeping on his face when he replied, "It started with me telling Jack how good his tunes were. How everyone liked 'em in the writing department. And when our director was away, we'd blast the radio on full volume."

He smiled a little more now, but still flicked the lighter open and closed.

A young man approaches, offering a small smile.

“Hey, I hope I’m not interruptin’? I’m from the storyboardin’ department, I was told to grab the scripts…If they’re done, that is.”

“The name’s Ray, by the way.”

[hope you don’t mind the intrusion ~@w-graves-nook]

Mister Hendricks slowly peeled his eyes off his typewriter to look at the young man, tired brown eyes turning into mild distrust.

"Okay...? Hold on," the man muttered, having to hop out of his chair and search his lower cabinet drawers.

Finally, he pulled out a crisp file and gave it to the man.

"Here, most of them are finished, but there are some where you're going to have to fill in the blanks," Hendricks said gruffly.

"Hudson," the man pointed to himself.