I am convinced that I have seen every current new edit of FakeFang, especially the ones you repost which are made by lancethechance, like i said ship so small we all know eachother cuz that's literally my friend ❤️🩹❤️🩹
AND they made this ^^ (so sadly I did not)
+ one more
I love lance, they're so cool and nice ❤️🩹 one of the first ppl that really solidified my love for FakeFang after I started making own edits of them on tt :33
I love Lance's edits too! Pls tell your friend they have skills and thank you for feeding the fan(g)dom 🦇🖤
Hahah those are both great. I may borrow them to put in reblogs/replies if that's okay!
Gosh I really want to get into editing but idk where ppl get their clips or what apps to use (any suggestions I'd be so grateful) I have a few song samples in mind but not the skills 😭 (yet).
A snippet of a Vlad/Robin Soulmate AU story I'm working on for Soulmate September. Enjoy!
--
He's three years old. Toys litter Vlad's bedroom floor, each pulled from an ornate wooden chest and then swiftly discarded, as he searches for Mr Cuddles. The monkey is the biggest toy he owns, so therefore, the most important. He must keep it safe. This quest is interrupted by an odd, tickly sensation on the back of his hand. He giggles, then looks down, and his eyes widen at the thick, shaky line appearing on his skin, curving into an almost-spiral. It's pretty. He's never seen such a vibrant colour before.
Toys forgotten, he rushes off down the castle halls as fast as his little legs will take him, in search of Ingrid, Zoltan, his dad—whoever is closest. Do they know colours can be this bright? Can any of them explain how it got on his hand, and how he can keep it there?
He finds his sister under the dining room table. She's drawing on a pile of loose paper with pencils that aren't nearly as loud or eye-catching as his purple spiral.
'Ingrid!' he yells as he ducks under the musty tablecloth.
'What?' she snaps.
He holds out his hand, grinning proudly. 'Look!'
She does, first frowning, then grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling it closer. Vlad drops to his knees to accommodate her. 'We don't have markers!'
Vlad doesn't know what a marker is, but he guesses, from Ingrid's accusatory glare, that she's trying to ask where the colour came from. He doesn't need to explain, as right then, a blue line appears on his wrist and extends up his forearm. The colour isn't light (like his sister's eyes or the sky he occasionally gets to see when he cries loudly enough for Renfield to give in and open the shutters) nor is it dark (like the lining of granny's winter cape) but something in between. Deep and vibrant and with a hint of green. He yanks his hand from Ingrid's grip and leans closer to the candle she'd been using for light.
The flame flickers and almost dies as Ingrid shoots up, bolting from under the table and then out of the room, screaming for their dad. He doesn't think on it, too busy watching the line turn into a scribble.
'Hush, girl,' his father says, voice carrying in from the hallway. Thunder cracks outside. 'Vladdy is a Dracula, and no Dracula has ever been bound to a breather!'
'But you said markers were only for the breather peasants!'
The tablecloth vanishes. Vlad swallows as the Count's icy fingers grip his wrist, cold eyes scrutinising the marks before his lips curl up in disdain. Vlad shrinks away, pulling his arm towards his chest as if he's afraid his father might cut it off.
'Told you!' Ingird says, hands on her hips.
'Perposterous!' The Count stands. 'Vladimir's soulmate is simply the product of exceptionally neglectful parentage.'
Vlad's skin is suddenly very cold. Patches of marker fade in quick bursts, as if being wiped away with an invisible cloth.
-
Watching the colours appear and disappear is Vlad's favourite pastime.
At six years old, he's tall enough to open the shutters in his room, so he can sit in the sunlight as the lopsided bunnies materialise, line-by-line, on his left arm and both legs.
Not only does the daylight make it easier for him to take in every little detail, but it also keeps his dad out. He doesn't know what the man has against fluffy rodents or colourful ink, just that it isn't worth the argument, so he does his best to avoid the topic. He's also old enough now to understand that it's a real person drawing on his skin, and he doesn't want anything to happen to them. No one had to tell him to cover up when his grandparents visited. He could already tell they wouldn't approve. They approve of nothing he does.
This lasts until age ten—when the drawings turn dark. Now, the outlines are always black, and when bright colours do make an appearance, they serve as accents, and usually only red or fluorescent green. The subject matter has also changed. No more fluffy animals. The mysterious artist's focus has shifted to aliens, bats and—most importantly—vampires.
The first time ten-year-old Vlad spots a figure with a cape and fangs on his skin, he sprints to the crypt.
'Dad, dad, dad!' His palms smack the side of the coffin.
'What in the Impaler's name are you—' the Count pauses, taking in his son's forearm. A crudely drawn vampire with dots for eyes, a steep widow's peak, and bloodied fangs nearly too big for its face. To one side of the figure is a flock of bats, and to the other, a squid (or maybe a really big spider) is caught in the fluorescent green beam of a flying saucer. The man's face splits into a grin. 'Oh, Vladdy, I knew it!' He ruffles the boy's hair. 'Now this,' he points at the drawing, 'is more like it!'
Vlad returns his father's smile. He agrees. The figure's beady eyes, oversized fangs, and pointy cape are adorable.
-
In a cheap motel on their drive to Stokely, Vlad sees his first opportunity to draw something himself.
All they had in the castle were pencils and quills. He'd tried, once, to use a quill on his arm, but the tip had been too sharp to really press down, and hovering it had caused the ink to drip, creating a black puddle on his wrist. His soulmate had outlined it in silver paint and labelled it a black hole, which had caused so much blood to rush to his face that he feared he might pass out. Worth it.
Sitting on a hard bed, his father and Ingrid bickering mere metres away, the thought hits him. He doesn't know if his soulmate is still awake—the early-evening showers that wash both their arms clean suggest he probably keeps to a normal breather sleep schedule—but the pen on the scuffed desk tempts him.
He tests it in the cover of a water-stained phonebook. Blue.
Taking the pen back to the bed with him, he considers his next move. He's not anywhere near as artistic as his soulmate, and he doesn't want his first proper attempt at contact to be embarrassing. The ink blot doesn't count—if it's ever brought up, he plans to pretend it was an accident.
His dad, visage darkened by his flaxen hair and long cape, bares his fangs at Ingrid. Her eyes roll.
It's been years since Vlad last drew a vampire—he's never been the biggest fan of family portraits—but his soulmate draws at least a couple of them a week.
He uses the back of his thigh, due to it having the most space and the least contours, and attempts to keep the size reasonable. The head is a bit wonky, the oval on too much of an angle, but he figures he can cover that with the hair. He's proud of how the high collar turns out. He makes the eyes narrow and colours them in completely. His father's eyes turn black when he's hunting—to enhance both night and peripheral vision—and this vampire looks like it could be out hunting. He gives it bared teeth and a double set of fangs—Dracula fangs. Its hair is long and straight.
Vlad hates it immediately.
It's not that it's a bad drawing; it's just not up to the standard of what he's used to having on his skin. The lines are shaky, the arms are too short, and the high cheekbones look more like a pair of symmetrical scars.
He's about to head into the bathroom and wash it off when his skin prickles.
A shape appears beside the figure. A circle. The circle grows a body. In a matter of seconds, there's a second vampire on his other thigh, this one made of black pen and clearly modelled after his own. The sides of the mouth curve in more than on Vlad's figure, and the eyes are a bit wider, giving the impression that it's excited to kill.
Are those—oh!
Words!
Vlad gasps, then snaps his mouth shut. He doesn't want anyone to interrupt this moment.
Words form above the picture. 'Is this how you imagine vampires?'
