THANK YOU ALL

LOOK WHAT MY FRIEND MADE MEEE!!

HUDSON LOOKS SICK AND AWESOME AND THE SHADING/LIGHTING IS PREFECT!!!

GO CHECK OUT HER ART, HER ART IS WONDERFUL GO FOLLOW HER!!

Ghost Lad

(TW: Gore/Body horror)

A gift for @unnoticedunawarestillhere of his insane silly little writer man Hudson! I could not for the life of me find a good background for the elevator so the broken one will have to do.

I have no clue how to draw scissors well, so that's the best I could do lol.

I have to admit, I really like drawing the creepy side of his face, it's not anatomically correct in the slightest in this drawing but it was still fun to draw! I hope you like it! I have no clue if you changed anything about his ghost design, sorry if it may be inaccurate lol.

The price you paid.

The white static made it hard to see what was what.

 He could see his own  breath like a foggy mist while his feet and arms begged for him to stop crawling through the thick snow.  His nose caught in the smell of burnt metal and vulgar smoke. 

Warm blood poured down as his left eye squinted and winced. 

He touched his forehead only to see a warm sticky red trickle down his fingers. His head lolled to the side, before he regained his focus and continued to pull himself through the snow. 

 Hudson was already feeling lightheaded, but also felt  like the world was slightly slanted.

 Either way, it just didn’t feel right.

 “How long has it been since I left the site of the crash? Have I just been going in circles? Those trees look familiar,”  Thoughts creeped through his  mind as he was too weak to push them away. They ate his determination and hope like bugs, while only emptiness stayed.

 Everything hurts. My  mind feels like someone swung a hammer at my head, He thought. 

However, he thought about Felix, his co-pilot. Poor Felix waited at the site of the plane crash, his torso stuck under heavy metal and burnt steel. 

What makes it even worse, the whole plane ride, all Felix talked about was how excited he was for his and his fiancé's wedding. How they were going to have it at a large beautiful church. Inside the church would be decorated with white flower petals. How they ordered custom golden rings for each other made specifically in Belgium. How beautiful his fiancé would look in her wedding gown. 

Hudson’s stomach lurched at the thought of how Felix’s face twisted in pain when he tried to free his legs from under the wreckage. At how Felix had such calmness in his grey  eyes when he looked up at him. He trusts me. He respects me. 

The wind now sounded like a woman’s high pitch scream. Too much. It’s all just too much. His arms gave out and half of his  face became buried in snow. 

 He could see crimson seeping into the pure white. 

He tried to get up, but his arms gave out.

 He could barely feel the snow cushioning his face. He wanted to call out for help, but he stayed silent. He hardly knew  where he’d crashed. 

Calling out into unknown territory could lead to fatality.

 He wasn’t sure if any enemy officers were around and he didn't want to learn that the hard way. 

His  pale blue winter uniform is soaked. He should’ve worn his pilot suit all together, but due to the rush he was in he had little time to put it on.

 With all the strength Hudson mustered, he army crawled through the snow and pushed ahead. 

It was still bright outside, but he was worried that soon the sky would  be casted into a deep darkness.

 He noticed that the gash on his head was still bleeding heavily and  the tips of his fingers were making his body scream in pain. Shards of glass from a broken windshield embedded into skin. 

 Squinting his brown eyes, he could see that they were an ugly white at the tips of his fingers. 

Frostbite. 

He shivered as he could hear his teeth clattering against each other. 

He wearily looked up where he was faced with a black raven sitting on an overhanging branch. Its talons hooked the branch and its jet black feathers looked glossy in its white surroundings. It tilted its head at Hudson and squawked.

 Hudson heard a twig snap behind him, but he was too frozen to roll over and see. 

The raven squawked again and flapped its wings around frantically before it took off at the drop of a hat.

 It flew away and Hudson watched it in burning envy.

 Even the bird has places to be, He thought with bitterness. He was alone with his thoughts. 

His cold wretched thoughts. 

He glared ahead, before he rested his head on his arm, his legs feeling consumed by the cold. 

For all his life, he had just been debating, comparing and surviving. 

 Reality hit him hard and pulled him under. 

He would never have a chance to say those important words to Bill. 

His family was scattered from the war.

Some of his  friends were still yowling and fighting in the trenches, others fighting in the skies being shot at like birds, and more were dying in hospital beds, wounded beyond repair.

While only a rare few were stuck in New York, cheering him on.

Yet here he was: failing. 

All the letters he had gotten from Jack. All the sweet words from a kind man who had been never, but good to him, would mean nothing soon. The man who he looked up to…the man he had hoped to return the kindness…he would never see again. 

His heart lurched at that. 

And what about Charlie and Cassidy?

Charlie had seen him off when he was on leave. Her hug was powerful even when she cried. He remembered how she promised to write, promised to cheer him on and tell his story.

Cassidy on the other hand now had two kids and was married to Robert. Happy and blessed. 

He was so proud of her and happy.

He was an uncle.

Was.

But his thoughts turned to a different direction. 

He wouldn’t even get discharged honorably, gaining peaceful retirement. Or even recognition for his hard work. 

His body might be lost.

As well as his name in the archives. 

People would forget him.

The cold had reached to his torso now, gripping tightly around his organs while his rib cage was too feeble to protect.  

The bruises and cuts were starting to get to him as the pain he had repressed was now pulsing through him. He could feel the shards of glass poking at tissue and muscle, some even drilling deeper. 

His eyes watered, blurring his vision. His chest felt heavy and his lungs clinging onto his unstable breathing.

 Hudsons head rolled off his arm and was now laid dipped in the snow. 

He glared up at the grey sky with a blurred vision. 

Blood pooled the ground below him while the cold was now to his shoulders, biting through his uniform as it began to stab through his skin. Before numbing it. 

The world slowly grew dark in Hudson's half-lidded eyes. The pilot's breathing grew shallow and slow.

He coughed, tasting blood and bitter soot. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, water streamed down his bloodied and soot tainted face. 

“I tried. I really did.” 

“But I can’t get up.” 

Blood, soot, cold, glass, smoke and screams.

Oh such wonderful things.

how long have you been into EPIC :3?

Hmmm, I'd say two years now! :3

I got into it when I heard the song "Just A Man"!

And then I decided to read more on Greek mythlogy!

GUYS. GUYS. HUDSON IS IN A STORY AGAIN?! WHAAAAAAAAAT?!

This is crazy good and it definitely represented Hudson really well during his last moments alive in the studio! A lot of this was referenced from the rp me and @creationandcalamityau did a month back!

A Meeting (gift)

A short story ft Clifford Conway and @unnoticedunawarestillhere 's oc Hudson! I really hope I did your boy justice in this! It was my first time writing him, so it might not be the greatest at the moment but I tried XD. Hope you like it!

Things had started getting hectic at the studio. Clifford had no idea what truly was going on, but he knew something was clearly wrong. Employees running around left and right, packing things in boxes, scrambling to get out of there like something was going to kill them, most of the employees looked miserable at best. 

Things were falling apart. 

Clifford was tasked with collecting some other Gent Equipment, such as tools and toolboxes left behind. He was searching for hours at this point, so many random hallways, it was like a corn maze with him expecting to have something jump out at him around every corner. 

In his search, he found only one toolbox, at least that he could find. He had passed numerous employees, many of which looked at him with looks of either hatred, disgust, disappointment, worry and just overall exhaustion. He certainly felt the last one, he had run up and down flights of stairs multiple times. 

Clifford had wandered into the sewers this time, he knew something had to be down here. 

And something there was, or better someone. 

A young writer sat at a desk, he seemed very tense. The writer was muttering to himself but didn’t notice Clifford at first. Clifford walked past him, shuddering a little at the odd sight. He watched the young man’s shoulders tense for a second. Clifford somehow dropped the wrench he had been holding on the floor, making a rather loud clang as it hit the tiled floor.

“Shit!” Clifford cursed under his breath, picking the wrench back up. 

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” The writer shouted, his voice sounded rather rough like he had been yelling too much. He suddenly started coughing, Clifford winced a little, stumbling back a bit before he decided to sprint down further into the creepy sewers to find that toolbox. 

“People are weird here…” Clifford muttered to himself when he was a reasonable distance away from the rather angry writer. He sighed softly, seeing the second toolbox near the boiler room, along with an empty desk he passed, sheet music littering the desk. That was unusual but this studio seemed to be full of weirdos. 

Clifford went to retrieve the toolbox, it wasn’t too heavy thankfully. He walked back to where he saw that strange writer. The young man was still there, his brownish-black hair looked messier than it did when he first saw him. 

Clifford tried to keep going, but he was slightly concerned about the stranger. He knew he could sense him behind him. 

“Sorry about uh…dropping that wrench,” Clifford muttered quietly. The stranger coughed again, wheezing a little as if there was something stuck in his lungs like he had bronchitis or something. Clifford had the urge to scrub his hands with soap hard enough so he wouldn’t catch whatever this guy had. 

The stranger turned his head, looking at Clifford, he was tense, very tense. Clifford felt his hands clutch the handles of the toolboxes tighter. 

The young man stared at him for a second, not fully turned around. His hair obscured most of his face. He didn’t look so good. Clifford could tell by his pale, sickly-coloured skin. Though he himself was on the paler side, he at least looked healthy. 

“What do you want now?” The young man asked, he almost sounded like he was going to laugh or cry, or maybe both. 

“I just said sorry for bothering you. I will be on my way.”

The young man huffed, suddenly slamming his fist on the table, causing Clifford to jump a little, he backed up a bit more. He placed the toolboxes on the floor to give his arms a break. He wasn’t sure if he should run, even though his mind was screaming at him too, he stayed still, staring at the stranger. 

Maybe it was morbid curiosity or concern, he wasn’t sure. He wanted to leave, but he was afraid he’d get chased out of there by this weird writer. 

The young man suddenly stood up, he turned to look at Clifford, his dull dark brown eyes looked through him, not at him. Something was clearly wrong with this kid.

“Who are you? What the hell are you doing here bothering me?” The young man asked, his eyes narrowed slightly. Clifford could notice a smudge of black on the corner of his lips, which was odd. 

Clifford paused, trying to steady his breathing a bit. “I was just picking up extra Gent toolboxes.”

The writer approached him a bit more, suddenly looking around as if he heard something. 

“Please tell me you hear that too…” 

Clifford looked at him as if he was crazy, which that clearly was the case. As much as Clifford hated judging others, this kid was crazy, clearly insane. 

“What are you talking about?” Clifford asked, sounding clearly confused. 

The writer looked back at him, his eyes widened a little.

“The knocking in the walls. You don’t hear that?” 

Clifford shook his head, he wanted to run, he really did. But he was frozen here. He couldn’t move. 

The writer put his hands on his shoulders, looking at him with fear in his eyes.

“You have to hear the noises! Why don’t you hear them!?” He sounded like he was going to start crying. 

Clifford out of instinct pushed him off of him. “Don’t touch me, you weirdo! I don’t hear any noises!”

The writer blinked a little, coughing up some strange black liquid. Clifford was even more uncomfortable with this kid. He wanted to run away, he had to get out of there. 

“What, are you scared of me?” He grinned a little, his smile unsettled Clifford greatly. 

“No, I’m trying to do my job.”

The writer crossed his arms, he had a smug look on his face now, and the black liquid had trickled out of the side of his mouth a little. “And what’s that? Picking up toolboxes? That’s a pathetic job, is it not?”

“Yeah it’s dumb, but I’m helping pack up stuff for Gent. Maybe you should mind your own business, kid.” Clifford replied, sounding clearly annoyed. 

“Who are you calling, kid?”

“You, dummy. I’m calling you that.” Clifford replied with hardly any emotion in his voice, he tried to repress the feeling of annoyance that was slowly turning into anger. 

The writer laughed, sounding more like a wheeze than anything else.

“You think you scare me? You’re just another Gent Lacky.”

“I do enough work to provide for myself, I am not lacking in any way. Sure I am not the highest-ranking employee, but I work hard for what I earn. I think you should have more respect for workers like me.”

“Sure, whatever.” The writer replied nonchalantly, he was flipping a coin in the air now.

“I’m serious! I deserve some respect!” Clifford was getting frustrated with him now, he walked up to him, noticing how smug he looked at him. He flicked the coin suddenly in Clifford’s face. Clifford sighed heavily. 

“Have a Loonie, you look like you need it.” The writer said, that smug smile not leaving his face as he flicked the Loonie back at him again. Clifford was losing his patience with his kid. 

“Can you stop? Don’t want your Loonies!” 

“Come on! It’s one dollar in Canada! You aren’t scared of a single dollar are you?”

“I don’t care how much it's worth! Give me some respect!” 

The writer didn’t respond, he just flicked the Loonie back at Clifford. Clifford clenched his hand into a fist. He wasn’t the type to lash out at people, but this kid was driving him insane.

“I would stop if I were you, kid.”

“No! This is funny, you keep messing up the place and are the reason this damn studio is going to shit in the first place!”

“Don’t blame me for that! Maybe your idiot CEO should pay his damn bills.”

“Maybe you should stop ripping our studio apart!”

Clifford felt his shoulders tensing a bit, he glared at the young writer adjusting his glasses a bit. 

“Would you shut up!?” Clifford raised his voice a bit, he punched the writer in the face, he didn’t even realize it at first. 

He sort of stumbled back, looking down at the kid, he clutched the side of his face that Clifford had punched. 

The kid looked up at him, squinting a little in pain, his nose was bleeding now. Clifford looked at his fist, some blood splattered across his knuckles, even if he was wearing gloves, he could still see it. 

“What was that for!?” The writer muttered, grumbling a little in pain. He wiped the blood off of his face, staring at it on his hand for a moment, his hands were shaking. 

“I’m sorry…”

He backed up, and the kid stood back up, wiping his bloody hand on his pants before approaching Clifford. 

“Yeah? Oh wow, yeah you’re sorry! I’ll make you feel sorry for being born!” He attempted to punch Clifford, but little did he know Clifford knew how to box. He knew how to fight. He had done it before. 

Clifford squared up to prepare to fight. He glared at the young writer. 

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”

But of course, the writer didn’t listen, he was too angry to listen. He threw a punch but much to his surprise, Clifford caught his fist. 

His eyes widened in surprise, Clifford didn’t move, he just held his fist, before shoving him back again. 

“Enough with this! I am sorry I punched you.” 

Clifford wasn’t expecting a reply. He watched the writer suddenly look guilty. 

“I’m sorry…I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He sounded meek. He backed up a bit, he seemed upset. Sad even. 

Clifford didn’t know what to say.  He started to regret punching him.

“Are you alright? I punched you pretty hard back there.” Clifford asked suddenly. The writer simply put his arms around himself, looking off to the side, some blood still smudged under his nose. 

“No…I’m a bit crazy…I’m so sorry.” 

A bit? Clifford thought though he didn’t want to say it out loud. 

“It’s okay, it is pretty hectic around here. Are you leaving like the other employees?”

The writer shook his head. “No…I can’t.”

Clifford didn’t want to push more, he just nodded. 

“I’m Clifford. What’s your name?”

“Err…Hudson.” The writer replied, trying to straighten his already wrinkled shirt. 

“Nice to meet you. Even if this is a rather awkward way to meet.”

Hudson tried to smile but he instead broke out into another coughing fit, coughing up strange black liquid, just like the stuff that leaked from that rickety machine Thomas once showed Clifford. The liquid was ink…

He shuddered a little but didn’t question it. He didn’t know how to ask if the liquid was ink. It could’ve been chocolate syrup that you put in milk, that thought made him feel slightly better, even if it was stupid. Of course, it wasn’t syrup, it was ink, it had to be ink. 

“Are you alright?” Was all he could think to ask, trying to ignore the fact that Hudson was indeed coughing up ink. 

Hudson wiped the ink from his mouth, nodding quickly. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’m okay…”

He didn’t sound certain, but Clifford didn’t want to question it anymore. 

“How did this place get this hectic? I swear it wasn’t this bad the last time I was here.” Clifford asked suddenly, changing the subject in hopes of easing his worries. 

“A lot happened,” Hudson replied, he sighed heavily, looking down the hallway for a moment. “Too much to the point I can’t even remember. I don’t even know what happened, just this machine Mr. Drew has which keeps breaking down and taking a lot of money. I guess bankruptcy?” 

“Oh shit…” Clifford muttered. “That’s no good.”

“Yeah…But don’t take everything I say as truth, I don’t know exactly what’s happening.” Hudson replied, glancing back over briefly at a bottle of ink on his desk. 

“What job do you do here?” 

“I work in the Writers Department.” 

“Oh! That’s interesting! What exactly do you do?”

“I help write the scripts for the cartoons. I often come down here to get some quiet.” Hudson glanced away for a moment at the mention of coming down here. He was getting quiet but he also left to be down here because he didn’t want to get mocked by the other writers. He didn’t want to tell Clifford that though. 

“That must be a lot of work. I could never do that type of stuff, even if I am a bit of a dreamer myself, I can’t really find the time and energy to create something. I never really learned. But I look up to people who do!”

“It’s a lot of work, I’m glad you appreciate my work,” Hudson replied with a soft smile. Clifford smiled back, he was glad to brighten his spirits a bit. 

“It was nice to meet you. I should probably get going now. But I hope we cross paths sometime again!” Clifford said, picking up his toolboxes. 

“Yeah…that would be nice! Nice to meet you too!”

Hudson smiled, watching Clifford as he turned to leave. He sighed heavily, reaching for the bottle of ink on his desk. He drank some of it, coughing a bit on the horrible taste of ink burning his throat. 

He sat back at his desk, putting his head in his hands, he hated this, he wanted to stop drinking this awful ink, but he couldn’t. It hurt him, but he kept drinking it. 

He stared at the empty papers on his desk, ink splatters dripping onto them from his lips. He simply lowered his head, giving up on working on his script. 

His mind refused to shut up. He wished he told Clifford the truth, maybe he could’ve helped him, but it was too late. 

It was always too late it seemed…

They would take about chucking a table at Allison-I'm kidding.

They would probably be talking about the latest hot gossip in the studio and also sing together cause why not.

(Your art is so pretty!! They look so freaking gorgeous. U-U)

If you're still taking requests: Could you draw my Susie hanging out with your Susie? :>

RAHHH YOU DRAW HER SO PRETTYYYY!!! I'll never pass up a chance to draw my beloved wife Susie. My requests are basically always open :D what do you think they would talk about 🤔

what would Hudson look like if he lived in a different decade? Like what would he wear?

I couldn't decide so I drew these times that he might have been in if he wasn't a BATIM oc. (Though, I still believe him being in the 20's is a good match)

MY APOLOGIES FOR THOSE WHO HAVE SENT ME ASKS. I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO DRAW FOR THOSE ASKS BUT I NEED TO FIND THE STUPID TIME ARGHHhHh

"It's annoying though......." >:(

(Hudson's unpopular opinion)

how would Norman react to the song California

Girls being his theme song..?

(btw if ya want context, go ask @a-walking-contradiction :]...)

(Erm…well I will start off by saying pop……….wasn't popular in that time period…)

“My…theme song? What even is California girls? Like…the state?”

(Alt reaction after he heard the song)

“Wow. This is what people think is my theme song? What have I done.”

I'm curious as to what your Tom design for your AU is!(Pre fall lol) If you have one, that is lol if not, have a wonderful day/night!(Ask from mainblog but hiii lol)

Here is Tom from my Au! There are some posts already about him, so yeah. I swear he isn't an ass-hole all the time. Just most of the time.

(Hellooo :3)

"It hurts that you ruined me."

Why? Why leave me with all of this?