#SOBBING OVER RAMB

[kakusu-shipping]

Sorry y'all I'm getting soooo attached to the manlets I cannot best in combat.

[unikhroma]

rambton, or idk fucken. puppetsocket if you like those wacky ship names that last drawing isn't their actual standing height difference btw, ramb is sitting

can an email and a power strip find love? yes. i have a lot of thoughts on these two interacting

so my theory for these two is that both of them have come in contact with DEVICE_FRIEND. they both were exposed to forbidden information through FRIEND, and although it affected them to different degrees, they both kinda.. lost it. obviously it's much worse for spamton, but it's still the case for ramb as well. he just tends to hide his issues.

the horror of the information they possess is something that they bond over, and something they feel like only the two of them could understand (maybe jevil can but spamton doesn't get along with him ;;). they also see themselves in each other, having been outcasted by their fellow darkners and kept in solitude. maybe together they could be less lonely?

they also think lowly of tenna, having to deal with the side of him that's not great. when they first met again, spamton got extremely angry when he was brought up, which startled ramb, but he broke down sobbing soon after the anger (which is the context for the first drawing).

that moment was when ramb fully understood that this mailman that tenna's always complaining about had more going on than just a big ego. of course he already figured, but yknow it's different seeing the guy show symptoms right in front of you

it's also just nice to spend time with another guy from the same dark world too. ramb doesn't have to feel like a fish out of water anymore, and even though spamton is scary, he's fun, he cares about him, and he doesn't judge. they kept spending time with each other and began to catch romantic feelings.. and that's how they became a couple

though i haven't figured out in what context they met again. something something the knight really did take ramb after kris gets the shadow mantle and they chuck him into castle town for some reason (maybe so he can do that "work to do" he was talking about after the shadow mantle fight)

[dreaming-of-mossballs]

hii so I'm like a super ultra silent reader of your content bc I am deathly afraid of my liked posts showing up on my friends' feeds. but I had to somehow let you know that even though you seem to be having some sort of burnout and unhappiness with your writing, as someone who's very very picky about what writing I even enjoy, your writing style and skill is definitely some of my favorite on the app at all. I totally understand being unhappy with your own work since I'm an artist too (albeit a visual artist so, not quite the same here but the idea applies), and I can relate to being unsatisfied with whatever it is you're putting out there. but basically, I just wanted to let you know from an outside view, your writing is extremely eloquent and well-put-together and organized. you can tell your writing is created with a lot of thought and time put into it, which is why it's so easy to enjoy. and side note, I LITERALLY haven't been able to stop thinking of your last post since I read it yesterday which almost never happens 😭. honestly even though there's like 5 gepard fans on here so he gets practically no content from anyone, I'd still prefer to have your writing carrying the "fanclub" of sorts over a large crop of posts from lots of people that isnt very well-done or thought about. I know you said this recent post may be your last one for a bit, so please, PLEASE take your time with whatever's next!! your stuff is always very much worth the wait ❤️ and please do take care of yourself and don't push yourself too hard.

(by the way, you totally don't need to post this on your profile or respond to it at all, I just wanted to send in some kind of message about it since as I mentioned, my paranoia prevents me from interacting with your posts directly 😞)

CRYINGB UGLY SOBBING OMGOMGOMG

It surprises me when people say I don’t need to respond because I can’t keep such a nice note to myself 😭 but I do the same thing when I’m sending asks so I totally get it (I’d get this tattooed on my forehead if no one stopped me)

i had NO IDEA I had a super ultra silent reader so this was an absolute joy to get. There was a post I saw earlier about how in fandoms, it’s either you talking with a small group of friends or your door is open and people come in and listen to you ramble. I’m definitely the latter. I’m so fortunate to have so many people invested in my story lol, because like most things I write, they start off as daydreams in bed. I’ve never written one out before, but I’m SO GLAD I DID.

And honestly, if I were to release something the quality I wanted it to be, it would take ages of rereading and refining. Unfortunately im not a very gifted writer, but all the practice I’ve gotten due to being obsessed with gepard has helped me a bit. I just have to remember that haha

Some less coherent thoughts

ITS EASY TO UNDERSTAND???? YAY IM SO HAPPY AHHHHHHHH

i actually based my style off the wings of fire series, i don’t know if y’all are familiar with it, but the introspective humor was so fun to me as a child. (Also I love using Chekhov’s gun as a crutch I’m sorry guys) it also stemmed from the worry that readers wouldn’t be able to visualize what I was picturing, so that ended up in a LOT of describing scenes early on. With no metaphors so it was just like. (Y/N) set the cup down, (Y/N) put the laundry in the washer, etc. hahaha it makes me laugh looking back on it

it also makes me absolutely kicking my feet giddy that it’s invaded your brain. I love giving people brain worms and inflicting emotional damage on them. And gepard ALWAYS shares posts with other Hsr men like. The absolute middle child treatment. But I’m glad I’m doing my part to bring something to the table that’s different than the usual 1k words he gets sandwiched in between five other people.

it makes me so so happy you think my writing is organized and well thought out, because I do put a lot of thought into it!

I’ve run out of words to say but i might come back to this to ramble pfft

i hope that fic gives you a good supply of serotonin for days to come 🩵🩵

[kyunsies]

wonho’s voice?? that’s my favorite song 🥺🥺🥺🥺

[ohnojustimagine]

Let the Right One In

The Fiend/Reader, vaguely hinted at Seth Rollins/Reader; smut, 2305 words

Set before the burning of the Funhouse.

-

It's never easy to find the door to the Funhouse, but it's always there, somewhere, if you look hard enough, tucked away in some unassumingly innocuous corner of whatever venue WWE is occupying on any given night.

For a while you wondered how it was actually possible for it to exist as a physical space, even trying to convince yourself that it was maybe some weirdly elaborate set that travelled with the show, but you never really believed it. Bray's powers are a mystery that you could never hope to understand, drawn from sources you'd prefer not to have any knowledge of, places better left alone.

You pace the backstage area restlessly, searching back and forth through the hallways, rounding a corner and almost crashing into the dark-haired man walking towards you.

"Whoa," Seth says, holding up his hands. "Slow down there."

"Sorry, I was just..." You shake your head. "Distracted."

You used to be pretty friendly with Seth, back in what feels like it could be another life, but things change, and it's been a while now.

"You lost?" he asks you.

"No, I'm good."

"Looking for someone?"

He seems maybe a little too curious, so you only answer, "Kind of." You shrug, stepping to one side. "Anyway..." you say.

He gives you a thoughtful look, and says, "Stay out of trouble."

"Where's the fun in that?" you reply, smiling, and he laughs, but you're already walking away.

And there it is, you think, recognizable by the too-bright light that shines from under the door. You don't knock, knowing you'll be welcome, squinting a little as you enter, letting your eyes adjust. You've learned to ignore the round of applause that greets you as you walk in, the noise of children cheering as if from nowhere, artificially happily. The sounds dies as quickly as it started and then there's only an eerie, overbearing silence.

There's pictures on the wall, and a table, behind which is Rambing Rabbit. "You again," he says, and though he might technically be a puppet, there's no sign of anyone under the table, no one visible controlling him.

"Where's Bray?" you ask.

"He's not here," the rabbit answers, turning away from you.

"Yes he is."

"You shouldn't come around here," Rambing Rabbit says, squeaky little voice stuck somewhere accusation and apprehension.

"Why?"

"Because you bring him out."

"Better he's here for me than for you," you say. "Never seems to end too well for you, does it?"

The rabbit starts to speak, but then suddenly stops, beginning to tremble as he covers his face with his tiny hands and you hear applause, again.

"Hey there!" Bray says brightly from behind you, and you might never get used to the way he just seems to appear, but you turn to face him, smiling.

"Hi, Bray."

He gives you a look of patronizing concern, tilting his head towards you as he stage-whispers, "Are you here to see him?"

"Maybe," you reply, knowing it won't do you any good to be evasive, yet still trying. "But I like seeing you too."

Bray grins at you, manic enough to be unnerving, but you don't let it get to you. "We're friends, aren't we?" he says, nodding happily. "It's good to have friends."

"It is," you agree, careful not to let him see your impatience, but he already knows you too well.

"He's not your friend," he says, and that broad grin is suddenly gone, replaced by a dark, knowing look. "Maybe you'd do best to learn that, girl." He stares at you, and you feel it, his presence like a slow, ominous heat beginning to burn inside you, want and desire laced with the intoxicating thrill of danger, right on the edge.

"No," you tell him. "He's not my friend." He's something else entirely, says a voice in your head, like a warning, but you pay it no attention.  

Bray laughs, cheerily false as an exaggeratedly zany sound effect rings out through the air around you. His face again lights up, eyes bright, and you breathe in, daring to reach out, laying your hand on his chest, his sweater soft against your palm. He's not wearing anything underneath it, you can tell, and you can feel the warmth of his skin, the solid bulk of his body.

He watches, seemingly considered as you move your hand across, thumb rubbing his nipple through the thin wool. "That tickles," he says, and thought the words might be childish, that guileless tone is almost completely gone from his voice.

"It feels good, though, doesn't it?" you reply, glancing down, seeing that he's wearing the gloves, and yes, you think, knowing that it won't be long, not now.

"Choose," he says, quietly, holding up his hands, each facing outwards in front of his chest, palms towards him, HURT on your left, HEAL on your right.

"Why do I have to?" you ask. "Why can't I have both?"

"I think you know why."

"Fine." You roll your eyes, like it's nothing, like there isn't anticipation coursing through your blood like a craving, arousal throbbing quick and insistent at your core. "This one," you say, tugging on the hand that says HURT.

Bray chuckles, low and deadly, no trace of lightness. "I'm not so sure that's the wisest choice."

"Screw wisdom," you say.

Bray stares at you for a minute, lips slightly parted but then his mouth curves up into an indulgent, condescending smile. "Wouldn't you rather be healed than hurt?"

"There can be healing in being hurt," you tell him, knowing he understands.

"You want to let him in?" he says, his voice so gentle a shiver runs through you.

"Yes," you whisper. "I want to let him all the way in."

Bray draws in a deep breath, then exhales, his whole body visibly tensed. "Turn around, then," he says.

You obey, feeling your heart beating inside your chest as you wait, forcing yourself not to hold your breath, counting off the seconds, terror twisted up with need, fear prickling like something hotly delicious across your skin.

The lights flicker on and off, the room settling into a barely-lit red darkness, the air hot and cold all at once, and you can feel it, the very moment that he becomes him. You don't even dare think his name, but you don't need to, because he's already inside your head; filling you, overwhelming you, and it's too late.

One thickly muscled arm wraps around you, grip like iron, pinning your own arms to your sides, and a gloved hand is pressed across your mouth. You can't stop yourself from struggling, your reaction purely instinctive, but he only holds you tighter. He's far too powerful, you know that, but he likes it better when you fight it, fight him. And you like it better too, even if you know you're playing with fire, that one day he's going to really, truly hurt you, but you don't care because you want it too much.

You lean into him even as you still squirm within his grasp, the smell of leather filling your head, and the hand over your mouth shifts a little, tightening, a thumb and forefinger pinching your nose shut and you can't breathe, panic rising up inside you.

You brace your legs against the floor, pushing back, but he's too strong, lifting you off your feet, unheeding as you kick out at him, desperate for air, and maybe this is too real, your head spinning, eyes watering. A moment passes, then another, and you feel yourself go limp, giving in, ceding any pretense at control. You're his, in this place, here for him to do what he wishes with you, and even as he finally allows you to draw breath, you don't resist him.

He lowers you slightly, though he still supports your weight, your body pliant in his arms, and you hear the sound of laughter, like something far away, his breath hot on your neck, the locks of his hair brushing over your shoulder.

You can feel his mask against your cheek, soft as flesh but not quite the same, as if it's something more, and perhaps that’s what it is; not really a mask, not something he puts on to hide himself. Because this is him revealed, his true form, and you're pretty sure he can see right into your soul, every inch of darkness and need exposed to him, devoured by him, rich and red as blood.

He reaches up under your tank top, a gloved hand kneading at your breasts, the rough touch contrasting with the soft smoothness of the leather on your skin. Fingers pinch and pull your nipples, and you let out a whine, hearing him suck in a sharp, needful breath.  

He shoves you face down onto the table, pulling your arms back behind you, wrists gripped tight in one hand as the other pushes up your skirt, ripping away your panties and tossing them aside.

His cock brushes up against you, and you feel him grip it, teasing the tip up and down your slit and you try to push back, but he won't allow it, keeping you in place, making you wait.

Please, someone begs, and you don't know if it's you or him, the words in your head too loud, too desperate, but you don't care as his cock slides into you, thick and slow. He lets your hands go, leaning forward enough to grip the back of your neck, holding you down as he fucks you, so hard and so fast that it seems to take your breath away.

And he's inside you, in ways he shouldn't be; not just his cock but his voice, his presence, all of him, possessing you, and you know, that this what it means to truly let him in.

It feels like it won't ever stop, any of it, and you shouldn't be able to come, not from being treated like this, but it's as if you've been taken over, your orgasm building to a peak that borders on cruel in its intensity, flooding through you uncontrolled, pulsing in waves until it finally begins to fade.  

You hear him moan, the sound of it almost inhuman, his hands tightening on you as he comes, thrusting into you with enough violence that you cry out with a sob that seems to come from deep inside you.

He pulls out, and you take a breath.

And then, without warning, he's gone.

The lights are back on, so bright you can barely see, and you have to take a moment before you can push yourself up off the table, your trembling arms barely able to support the weight of your body. You’re still for a minute, trying to get your bearings, remember who you are as the Funhouse  gradually reassembles itself around you.

"Real nice, baby," someone says, and it's Mercy, head popped up out of the cardboard box labelled with his name. And you wouldn't have thought a rubber buzzard puppet could leer, but he appears to take in the sight of your breasts with a disturbingly lacivious glee.

"Fuck off," you mutter, pulling down your top.

"Mm-mm," says Mercy. "You got a dirty mouth on you, don't you? No wonder he likes you."

You don't say anything, running your hands through your hair, fixing your skirt. Your panties are nowhere to be seen, so you don't even bother to try to find them, suddenly needing to leave this place.

"See you soon, pretty thing," Mercy sings out.

"Whatever," you say, already opening the door.

You step back out into... into reality, you tell yourself, though you're not so sure if that's true anymore, uncertain as to what's real and what's not, moving between worlds, laughter still echoing in your ears.

But you close the door behind you, and then jump, startled, because Seth's standing there, waiting, his arms folded. "What were you doing in there?" he asks, nodding towards the room.

You hesitate, but you know you don't owe him anything, not anymore. "Nothing," you lie.

"Doesn't seem like nothing," Seth replies, looking you up and down, obviously taking in the state of you, the fact you may as well have just been really fucked written in bold across your forehead.

You straighten up a little, meeting his gaze with as much defiance as you can muster. "Seems like it might be none of your business," you retort.

He takes a step closer to you, hand raised ready to open the door, but you don't move, blocking his way. He looms in front of you, and for a second you're not sure what to do, but it's clear he's not going to back down, so you step aside with a shrug, and he opens the door.

To reveal a small storage closet, piled high with janitor's equipment; mops and buckets and various random junk.

Seth peers into every corner, taking a good look, but it's clear there's nothing to see, no one inside.

"Huh," he says, stepping back, puzzled yet thoughtful.

"Satisfied?" you ask, sarcastically, but he only looks at you, not reacting.

"You know," he says, slowly, "you should be more careful."

"Yeah, not my style," you tell him.

He stares at you for a long, silent minute. "Maybe not," he finally says. "But you should still be careful."

"Don't worry about me." You shake your head, and there's something still there, something that remains, that isn't you. "Maybe you're the one who needs to take care, Seth," you say, your voice lingering soft on his name.

He doesn't say anything, but he sees it, you know, and you can feel his eyes on you as you walk away, but you don't look back.