#but sometimes you write a ficlet in one sitting and it has to go on ao3 Today or it's not gonna happen at all

[ilovedthestars]

New ficlet! My take on the missing scene where Amena makes Murderbot's hair fluffy :') (i made it sad by accident)

#titles are hard #but sometimes you write a ficlet in one sitting and it has to go on ao3 Today or it's not gonna happen at all #stars fic #murderbot #murderbot fanfic #system collapse #system collapse spoilers #this is my first fic about system collapse!! #and yet it is my *third* ao3 update since SC came out #(after the OUYU update and the SC chapter 8 meta post) #it's given me so much Energy for Making Things

[galactiquest]

We all know how touch starved Knives is but what if his s/o was also touch starved to the point of clinging on to him like a kola or a backpack. Just thought it may be funny that he's just acts like it's just the norm walking around with his s/o hanging off him.

Touch-starved Knives? I'm already there. I'm in the theater, Anon. I've got my popcorn and my large drink and I'm ready.

This idea was so cute to me I decided to write you some little imagines and a bite-sized ficlet, too! Hope you enjoy!

Millions Knives x Reader: Touchy

Content Warnings: None again, just tooth-rotting fluff. Doesn't have any specific Knives incarnation in mind, since they're all ever-so untouched and in need of touching.

First off, don't expect him to outright admit anything, ever. Knives is very much a "if I don't think about it, it'll go away" kind of guy. So there's no way he'll ever come up to you and be like hey, guess who didn't get enough skin-to-skin contact as a growing youth, this guyyyy. But do expect him to start getting clingy once he realizes he can.

It's like getting your first taste of your new favorite food. Now that you've had it, you can't get enough. Suddenly he's pressing his hand up to yours while standing next to you (not handholding, he tried this once and got overwhelmed and had to go bite something for a while). Or he's hovering behind you, resting his head on yours. Or he's laying next to you, tracing patterns across your arm/shoulder/back/whatever's available and allowed to be touched.

It's one thing if you're fine with touch. But if you're touch-starved like him, on the other hand? You're trying to sap that same affection from him. Since he's quick to overwhelm (as previously stated) it can be hard at times, but he slowly, surely, gets used to the sensations of pressure and touch that aren't violent or painful, just kind and pleasurable.

So, the touch becomes more constant, more level, more in-tune with each other. It starts feeling very natural. And that natural-ness feels great.

Hugs. So many hugs. That feeling of pressure between the two of you is relaxing and reassuring. (Also you totally get pressed into those "airbags" of his if you know what I mean.) He's so precise with his movements that he can hold you at the exact tightness that makes you feel the best. Who needs a weighted blanket when you have the Compression Boyfriend?

Koala backpacking? Absolutely. 100%. Crawl all over this man. Crawl up him like a vine. He's so used to it by now, he just lets it happen, even in the middle of work. Sometimes he'll pretend you're not there, just for the giggles. Completely straight-faced, but makes you laugh like mad.

If this is Stampede Knives we're specifically talking about (though I personally think the other Knives do this too) then you get to sit next to him, or even on his lap, while he's at the piano. No naughty business--just being close to each other while he plays the keys. Or maybe he'll ghost his hands over yours and show you how to play/follow your playing, if you already know how.

Alright, a little ficlet below the cut just for you.

"...My liege."

"What?"

Legato frowned at the sight before him. There was important business to be done, and here Master Knives was, fooling around. Letting you, the human he'd bonded with, crawl all over him like an insect.

"If nothing's amiss, Legato, then let's get to work." Knives huffed and picked up the paperwork from the table.

You shifted around slightly on his back, head resting on his shoulder, watching as he shuffled through the papers. This was one of your little games with him--you'd hang out on his back, literally, and he'd pretend you weren't there. He didn't care about the game, really, but it made you laugh. And if it made you laugh (one of his favorite sounds, if he had any), it was worth it.

"...Master Knives."

"Spit it out."

"Get that human off your back."

Knives growled. "That human has a name, you know. Besides, there's no human on my back."

You stifled a laugh as you looked at Legato, mouth twisting downwards in a frown.

"Yes, there is." Legato pointed. "They're right there!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Knives shook his head, then turned around to procure some more files from a shelf. As he turned, you looked back to Legato and stuck your tongue out at him.

"You arrogant little--"

"Legato," Knives grunted. "If you mean to insult me, I'll gladly slice you open."

Legato fumed, then finally spoke again. "Not at all, my liege."

"Good." Knives leaned over to rub his head against yours for just a moment, then returned towards Legato. "Then, let's get to work."

End Notes: I have a soft spot for Knives. And a soft spot for Knives learning to love, well, love. This is also dedicated to my friend who lets me shout about Knives at them. You're the best, K!

#millions knives x reader #millions knives x you #knives x reader #knives x you #trigun x reader #trigun imagines #reader insert #galactifics #love mail #Anonymous

[raayllum]

Do you have any headcanons of callum being protective/considerate/thoughtful with rayla? I'm so in love with how gentle he was with her this season.

Callum planting flowers from the Silvergrove in the castle gardens as a surprise and then convincing her to take a 'moonlit' stroll with him one night once they're ready so he can show them off

It's non traditional but he knows the main reason she hates the water is because she always feels unsteady on her feet so he gets her a grip mat for the tub so she can feel more centered

Redoing her braid for her whenever it comes undone and stitching up little tears and frayed edges in her clothing/cloaks because he knows how to sew

On that note: getting her a new cloak because her old one is tattered and doing up the clasp for her / tugging her in close by the hood for nose and mouth kisses if he's not smiling too much

Him and Ezran collecting a whole bunch of things during the timeskip to save up to give to her so that the castle can feel like home

So many forehead kisses and just gentle hand squeezes. Three squeezes means "I love you" and he'll trace the words onto her back or side sometimes when they're just laying together

He definitely talked privately to Opeli (and probably the guards) after the 5x01 throne room debacle and gave them a piece of his mind / new protocol to follow when it comes to them being concerned about Rayla's actions (ficlet here)

For that matter: absolute death glares to anyone who gives her a hard time at the castle / any diplomatic function (and probably almost causes a political incident or two over it)

Him murmuring the sappy love poetry he's read in her ear even when she rolls he eyes and can't quite hide her smile, working up his nerve to write personal poems of his own for her

Little things he did this season like being the one to handle the reigns of their mount the bulk of the time as soon as they started sharing because he knows she's not a morning person and is a light sleeper, so she holds onto his middle and he lets her doze for most of the day whenever he can

Requesting mints at inns they stay in that don't have any already / using magic to carve the soap into little shapes if they aren't that way to begin with and leaving them, once again, as little surprises for her to discover

If/when Rayla wants or needs time away from Stella (sparring perhaps) the cuddlemonkey is almost always with Callum and he makes sure she's cared for too. She's fussy about getting brushed and hard to pin down thanks to the six hands, so he'll usually help get her sitting still while Rayla does the actual grooming

Him using cooling spells for her when it's hot on summer nights (like in 4x07) and heating his hands to lay on her tummy when she gets period cramps

Normally he'd never throw his weight around as a prince, but he absolutely will on her behalf, whether it's getting something she wants from a servant tea/food wise or making sure they are treated well / have a nice place to stay while travelling

"It's none of your concern--" "It very much is her concern, and watch your tone."

Giving her his scarf whenever it's cold, of course

Making sure she's not overworking her bad wrist and giving little massages to that and her ankles when she's been doing a lot of jumps/movements that day, especially as they get older

His sketchbook is equally hers (even if she uses it far less often of course) and there's a few pages near the back designated for her to leave notes or doodles or whatever she wants when she's bored and/or he's not using it (he's very proud of how her drawing has improved)

Getting heavy duty enchanted blinds from Lux Aurea for her room so it can keep the sun out so she can sleep in / can give her room more of a twilight light quality so it can remind her of the Silvergrove (if she wants)

There are some meetings he can't get out of as crown prince but they're long and boring so he does his best to convince Rayla to go and spend her afternoon doing something she wants. (She usually stays for at least the first half anyway to support him and Ez)

Drawing memories and stories she tells him about her family and then giving her the pages so she can hold onto / remember them

Rayla still having a hard time articulating how she's feeling sometimes and getting upset/angry/embarrassed when it comes out wrong, so he takes her hand and gets her to take a steadying breath and start over with a gentle "Try again. What are you meaning to say?" if she says something obtuse/that comes out wrong

Ofc taking care of her when she's sick no matter how disgruntled or snotty she gets and reading to her quietly/stroking her hair until she falls asleep

Taking her to his favourite places in the castle/kingdom/Pentarchy for dates and private times to hang out alone, insisting on carrying their picnic basket because he's a Prince, Rayla, and chivalry isn't dead

Callum working very hard to learn traditional Moonshadow elf (no matter how much she teases him for his pronunciation) so he can use it to propose to her

#rayllum #headcanons #leftboob #requests #mine #thanks for asking #pining!callum #tdp #the dragon prince #supportive callum

[sphylor]

just saw a vid of a kitten walking back and forth on a piano and got to thinking

what does kitty dew do with his instrument or other instruments?? does he remember how to play it (maybe muscle memory?) or does he get all fascinated and like… amazed, when rain got the guitar out and sing for him?? and then he tries to like… pluck the strings but forget that he has claws or something…

could just be hc or a fluffy ficlet if you would be so kind to write it 😊😊

aa sorry this has been sitting in my asks for so long but i hope you like it!! ft. kitty Dew and cg Rain

(Dew does get a little scared and there are a few tears but it all works out fine in the end)

Dew tilted his head at the acoustic guitar sitting in Rain's lap. He had slipped in the ghoul den by himself and gone off to find his favourite water ghoul, following the melodic sounds coming from his room. He was sat on his bed plucking at the strings on the guitar, humming a little tune to himself. Rain stopped playing and lifted his head at the sound of the door opening. When he saw Dew standing in the doorway with his head tilted to the side and the blue mouse toy dangling from his mouth, he smiled wide and moved the guitar from his lap to make space for the fire ghoul.

"Hey, kitty. You okay?"

Dew rushed further into the room and climbed onto Rain's lap, purring and rubbing his cheek against the water ghoul's broad chest. He went to headbutt his chin but Rain pulled away slightly and reached out behind him for something.

"We can't have those pesky horns of your's skewering me." Rain said as he produced a hat with little bunny ears from behind him.

Dew chirped happily as he let Rain put it on his head, instinctively glamouring his horns away. He moved back in to gently headbutt Rain after it was secured in place and Rain graciously accepted the affection. As he was turning his head to rub his other cheek against Rain, Dew's eyes caught sight of the guitar again and he stilled. Rain peered down at the ghoul and watched his expression turn from happy and content to curious.

He reached out and ran his fingers across the strings. They made a funny noise when he did so he tried again but harder this time and the noise became louder.

Rain smiled but pinched his eyebrows together with slight concern. "Just be careful, Dew. Your claws might-"

PING

Dew jumped back and hissed as one of the strings snapped. Rain winced and the fire ghoul must have noticed as he stopped hissing and began to shrink in on himself.

"Hey, its okay. It was just an accident. I'm not upset." Rain scooped him up in his arms at the first sign of tears. He stroked the back of his head and held him close. "Its fixable. We can go restring it together later, yeah?"

Dew sniffled and nodded in Rain's arms. He peeked out of Rain's embrace and looked around. Just across from him on the other side of the room sat a stand with a couple of other different guitars sitting in it. He thought for a moment before wriggling out of Rain's hold and crossing the room to the stand. Gently, he tapped on the body of the bass guitar, looking back up at Rain.

"Meooowseyyy?"

"You want me to play a song for you?" Rain asked and Dew nodded enthusiastically. "Okay then go and get comfortable."

The smaller ghoul meowed happily and crawled over to the mountain of plushies on Rain's bed. He chose a plush bumblebee to cuddle up with as Rain set up everything.

The water ghoul pulled the guitar into his lap and began to play. It was a slow, calming song. One that was on the playlist that Mountain put on sometimes in the greenhouse. It immediately reminded Dew of butterflies, soft flower petals and napping in the warm afternoon sun. With just the bass guitar, though, it felt different and more special. He swayed back and forth as Rain continued to play the song. When the singing part came and Rain didn't start singing, Dew reached over and tapped at his mouth.

"If the kitty insists." Rain laughed and stopped playing for a moment to pat the top of Dew's head. Dew loved it when Rain sang. He had such a beautiful voice like no other. He settled back in with the bee and meowed happily as Rain began to sing.

"Its time to learn to be, more forgiving of yourself..."

#kitty dew #dewdrop ghoul #rain ghoul #the song Rain is singing is 'Can't Go Back' by The Crane Wives

[sinsmockingbird]

*Pokes head out of dirt and starts munching on a chocolate bar* Eh, what's up Chief? See, I was busy roaming around your blog here and an idea came to me, and being me I decided to brighten your day with this image of an idea I may play with myself.

Consider it a gift for all of the lovely PtN ficlets I have read on your profile. Over 2,135 words of filth and a rather raunchy idea that I hope I managed to convey correctly.

To warn you before hand, I am not really the best at doing second person writing or reader inserts, that said I hope you enjoy this.

Also, spicy content ahead, because Female Chief Reader be raunchy in this one, you have been warned.

Also, not sure of the quality of this because I rarely write stuff this spicy, I am trying to learn how to though so I hope I don't disappoint.

Picture this, Female chief reader decides to try and raise morale and funding for the bureau by running a maid café for the Sinners, with the food being prepared by Kelvin and Ignis with her handling the front.

Though the readers outfit is a little risque, the skirt is a bit too short and hugs their hips just a little bit too tight, and the top barely covers their breasts, with each movement making them jiggle.

One by one the sinner girls come to the café, intrigued by the idea of it, they wind up staying out of a desire to not embarrass themselves by leaving with either noticeable damp stains or noticeable bulges in their clothing as the reader dances around as they hand out their food and drink.

Sometimes they lean in and entrap the Sinners arms between their breasts, the warmth of their bosom and the sensation making them jolt as they lean in and purr in their ears in a breathy tone just what it is you think they would like, each syllable annunciated with a sinful purr that makes them shudder in delight.

An act that left Dreya silent and still as she struggled to contain her desires to pull her guide into her lap and savor her then and there, though she was able to content herself with the knowledge that later on she would make sure her guide paid for this teasing in full.

At other times you hand them their drinks and ask them if they would like something extra with the drink, maybe a little milk? Serpent winds up going crimson as the reader puffs out their chest as they say this, the action nearly making their breasts slip out of their top as the faintest edge of their areole becomes visible to her.

P.S. Imagine Serpent is snake like in that she has a pair of hemipenes, that is to say she has two cocks that are now trying to imitate the Eifel tower as she struggles to hide them.

At another point Zoya decides to try a special deal being the reader sitting on Zoya's lap, straddling her thigh and purposefully grinding their own plush thigh against the growing hardness between Zoya's legs as she leans in, pressing her breasts again Zoya's chest as she feeds her.

Truthfully though, Zoya is more focused on the damp spot left on her leg, evidence that the reader is not wearing any panties as she sashays around after feeding Zoya, the reader looking over her shoulder to wink at Zoya as she leans forward enough that the faint edges of her ass cheeks and what lays below are visible to the aching wolf.

Shalom feels she is in paradise as she gets a special deal that involves the reader kneeling on her lap, legs spread enough that the dampness is pressed against her skirt, as she holds a milkshake between her breasts.

The former Hush finds herself both blushing and fighting the urge to pounce as the Reader delicately puts her hands behind her head and guides her to drink from the straw as they card their fingers through her hair and purr soothing words to her, telling her she is being such a good girl and that she looks so good with her face between their breasts, and it feels wonderful to have her drinking from their chest.

It is safe to say that when the reader gets off her lap, carefully plucking a cherry to give to Shalom via a kiss as a finale, the Hush falls back silently with a glazed look in her eyes as she fights the urge to slip her and into her skirt and relive the ache your actions gave her.

Coquelic winds up having to hold Sumire and Garofano back from pouncing, her flowers fit to go out of control as the reader pushes herself against them, her nipples poking through the fabric of her top as she takes her time to carefully guide Garofano through the menu, pausing but to dip in an lay kisses at her ear, gently prodding it with her tongue as the Garden Tailor begins to whimper as she presses her thighs together.

Sumire, poor Sumire, she winds up with the reader offering to let her drink from her breasts like Shalom did, the Ikebana artist is left with her head spinning even more when the reader leans in and purrs into her ear that maybe she can even have some milk from the tap if she is a good girl for her.

Coquelic, already planning just how she is going to get the reader back for this, is hit with the reader crawling across Sumire and plopping herself on her lap, grinding herself against her as she reads the menu to her.

That the reader drops the menu on 'accident' and has to bend over and dig under the table for her it, their naked ass and sex on full display as they sway their hips here and there in search of the thing Coquelic is still holding is but fuel for the fire.

That the reader has the audacity to say that it is Coquelic that is teasing her for not telling her she still had the menu, and that they then lean in and whisper in her ear that she is such a minx as they grab it from Coquelic, certainly helps to make the normally pale Mentor's cheeks gai some color.

Garofano is further tempted to say to hell with decency and decorum when the reader looks her in the eye and says that if she wants to, she has a very special cherry that they can have as desert later on as they take her hand and guide it down the valley of their cleavage, down their stomach, and to lightly dance over where their clit is hidden by their skirt.

The reader leaves the table with three sets of eyes fixated on their swaying hips.

Chelsea, lovable idiot that she is, finds herself as hard as the gems she loves when the reader sits astride her lap as they sway to and fro as they pause their reading of the menu, to tell her that they were tempted to go with a cat café instead of a maid one, they even had a tail and ears picked out, though they do still have a cat.

The reader leans back, pushing their chest out as they through an arm back to pull Chelsea in to where their breath caresses her ear as they tell her that maybe they can show her the kitty later on, that it is a Pussy that loves to have its itches scratched by good girls like her, especially when it's wet and the good girl has such nimble and gentle fingers like she does.

Hamel finds herself enraptured as the reader grinds atop her lap, swaying to and fro as they shamelessly show her a dance the likes of which she has never seen before as part of a deal that she chose.

The Dancer of Dis is left longing for more when the reader leaves her with a parting promise of sharing another dance with her soon, one of the more private variety, unless she wants an audience to it, the last sentiment leaving Hamel a puddle of longing as she watches the reader gravitate to where Adela sits.

The woman known as Mad Shears, finds herself biting her lips such that she worries they will bleed as the reader tells her what is on the menu and they would love to scissor with her, oops that came out wrong, they meant to say they may need some scissors for something later on, how silly of them.

Adela can only wait for the reader to sashay away, with a promise of brining her tea to her soon, to part her legs and lean back with a sigh as she wonders if this is a dream or a nightmare.

Star Gazer is certain it is a dream come true when her 'Little Monster' presses their breasts together as she purrs into her ear that she has had a drink brought from White Sands just for her, along with some special sweets for her to enjoy as well, her words broken but by lovely moans as she allows Star Gazer to fondle her rear for a few moments before parting ways to retrieve her gift.

That the drink is a tea known to boost ones libido and the treats are her favorite sweets is somewhat overshadowed when the reader sits on the table, their legs spread enough that were it not for the bowl they now hold just over it, their dripping sex would be visible.

Still, Star Gazer can see the pearlescent fluid that leaks out from under the throbbing nub that is the readers clit, the engorged bead resting on the edge of the bowl as though it were a special treat for Star Gazer to savor for last.

That she takes care to dip the sweets in the readers arousal and to slowly lick them clean before eating them as she gazes into the readers lidded eyes is something that both enjoy greatly.

That when the reader leaves she calls back to them and tells them that she hopes they know what is waiting for them in the near future, only for the reader to look at the tent of her arousal and smirk at her in answer is something that makes Star Gazer lick her lips in anticipation.

Rahu is left a blushing mess beside Cinnabar when the reader pretends to have dropped something and bends down to pick it up, exposing her sex and rear to Cinnabar as they look near Rahu's feet.

The reader stage whispering that they may need something thick and hot and heavy to help them, the reader looking up from between Rahu's legs as they sway their hips with their hands lightly ghosting Rahu's thighs as they ask her if she has anything like that for them, before they claim to have found what they were looking for.

Though the reader does not get out from under the table, and instead lays their head on Rahu's thigh as they spread their legs enough for Cinnabar to see a droplet of their arousal fall to the floor as the reader takes their order.

That she she rests her notepad on top of Rahu's aching hardness as she writes out their orders nearly makes the masked woman snap.

The pair are left crimson and aching as they watch the reader walk away to get their orders, what they ordered they do not know, only that they hope it is delivered in as wonderful a way as their orders were taken.

Raven is left flustered beyond imagining when the reader perches on her thigh, spreading their legs just so that the faintest hint of their sex is visible, as they lean in and ask her what they need to do for a good review from the amazing journalist.

The reader telling her they are willing to do 'anything' she asks and to accommodate her every wish if she gives them a good review when she leaves.

Poor Raven is left writing down on her notepad as the reader leaves her table, though what she writes is known but to her and her alone, it seems to make her cheeks grow yet darker still.

Cabernet finds herself in a similar situation, enticed to offer a glowing review in exchange for a 'meal like no other', the readers parted thighs as they straddle her thigh and lean back against the table showing off said meal, and what ever other services she wishes for, in exchange for her promise of a good review.

As the reader walks away, Cabernet can't help but anticipate the meal to come.

Even Nightingale is not spared, for the poor adjutant finds herself with the Chief rubbing her shoulders as they press their breasts into the back of her head, all while telling her they have just the thing for such a loyal and hardworking woman like herself.

Something that guarantees her a truly happy ending to the day if she agrees to test out their message offers after she has her order.

All in all, the reader considers the café a huge success and eagerly anticipates the next time they host something like this, though if the sound of the door locking as Langley and Eirene look at her hungrily as she hears the others rise to their feet and begin to encircle her is anything to go by, it might be a while till they can walk long enough for the next one.

Well, what do you think of it? I hope you enjoyed it despite the lacking quality of it and that you don't mind if I use it in my own PtN fics on Ao3 and here later on.

All of that said, I hope you stay safe and have a great day.

Till Next time.

This. Is. Fucking. BEAUTIFUL!! Oh my god the way I'm frothing at the mouth at this idea... it's bringing my idea of PTN Maid Cafe back to the forefront of my mind, where the muscular women (Zoya, Rahu, etc.) wear maid outfits and the more smaller, timid women (Kelvin, Anne, etc.) wear bulter uniforms.

#*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟsins inbox #nomorefstogive

[dragonagitator]

Smutty BG3 fanfic prompt / scene / ficlet:

I wrote this scene with my own "Modern Girl in Faerun" author self-insert WIP in mind, but who knows when or if that fic will ever actually see the light of day. So if someone who can actually write smut wants to use this scene as a prompt for a lengthier fic, please do, and please also feel free to make any changes necessary to make it fit your own story or just generally improve the writing.

Summary: Post-game, Dom!Gale/sub!OFC, established relationship (but one that's about to change in a big way), discussion of consensual mind control, touches on bondage, breeding kink, and worship kink, implied impending fellatio. Features the aforementioned Book of Erotic Fantasy and teases the side of Gale revealed in his origin playthrough line about how he "always liked the idea of being worshipped. Adored. Obeyed..."

I apologize in advance for it not being very good and for cutting off right before the actual smut should begin. I'm not putting this out there because I'm proud of it, I'm putting this out there because I sincerely hope that writers who are actually good at this sort of thing might find it, take it away from me, and do it better.

If you're still interested then there's about 1,800 words of unhinged brainrot below the cut. Criticism welcome!

We’d been home in Waterdeep for less than a week when I found Gale sitting on the balcony loveseat, frowning at a book that sat closed in his lap.

“Did the book do something to offend you?” I teased as I bent over for a kiss.

“Ah, no,” he replied, “it’s just I find myself with a bit of an ethical dilemma.”

‘An ethical dilemma?’ I wondered, raising my eyebrow and taking a closer look at the book.

It was a rather thick book, with a velvet cover and tied closed with a silk ribbon. The cover imagery was extremely suggestive.

“The Book of Erotic Fantasy,” I sounded out carefully. “And exactly what sort of ‘ethical dilemmas’ does a smutty book provoke?”

“It’s not just erotic literature,” Gale explained, “It’s more of a manual.”

“A Faerun sex manual? This I gotta see,” I said and made grabby hands at him. He hesitated for a moment, then somewhat reluctantly handed it over. I sat beside him and snuggled into him as he put his arm around me, positioning us so that we could look at its pages together.

I untied the ribbon and opened the book, and laughed when the book itself moaned in my hands. Reading anything written in the Thorass alphabet was still a challenge for me so I flipped through the pages simply looking at the illustrations. There were a LOT of illustrations depicting various sexual positions and techniques. It appeared to be something like an illustrated Karma Sutra.

“Whenever did you have the time to go buy this?” I asked him with delight. “Are these things you’d like to try with me? Because that–” I pointed at a particularly intriguing illustration of a woman in bondage in some sort of complicated contraption I’d never seen before “–looks like it could be fun, if you know a good smith we could commission it from.”

“No, I, uh, that is, this volume has been in my library for some time,” Gale stammered and I smirked. I’d always loved how he could somehow still be so bashful sometimes despite being such a freak in the sheets.

“And it’s more than just a manual of… activities,” he continued. “The book is magical in nature–”

“Yeah, I got that part when it moaned,” I interjected.

“Yes, and when studied at length it can confer certain… abilities and… enhancements to the person who reads it,” he continued.

“Oooh, tell me more about these ‘abilities’ and ‘enhancements,’” I purred, setting the book aside so I could turn and straddle him, throwing my arms around his neck. He blushed so prettily.

“Well, studying the book makes one more charming and increases their endurance,” he began listing the effects while lazily stroking my sides. “And it ensures that one’s partners are never left… wanting.”

“Oh, so that’s your secret,” I teased, thinking back to all the mind-blowing nights we’d shared since he’d finally gotten over his hangups about bedding me.

“Ah, no, while I’d studied the book once years ago, the effects wear off after a tenday of celibacy. So after the year of isolation in my tower, I had only my… native talent… to rely upon,” he confessed.

His “native talent” had been more than enough, but now my curiosity was piqued.

“So you’re saying this book could make you an even better lover than you already are?” I started to grind against him lightly and his hands settled on my hips. “While I’ve been perfectly satisfied so far, I have to admit that I’m intrigued… although if you got any better, I might not walk quite right ever again.”

“It also conveys mastery over one’s own reproductive system, and that of one’s partner,” he continued. “It acts as a perfect contraceptive. Or, if one so desires, it can… guarantee that conception takes place.” He looked me directly in the eyes as he said that last part, seemed to search my face for clues as to how I felt about that.

Just the idea of it sent a jolt of desire straight to my core.

“Are you saying,” I responded, my mouth suddenly dry as the urge to spread my legs even wider for him overwhelmed me, “that this book would allow you to breed me whenever you want?”

He tightened his grip on my hips and shuttered slightly, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment before he looked back up at me with determination. His pupils were blown so wide that I could barely see the brown of his irises anymore. It felt like he was looking directly into my soul.

“Yes,” he confirmed firmly.

‘So, my fiance has a breeding kink too,’ I mused. ‘That’s convenient.’

I was so aroused from our conversation that my hips took on a mind of their own, and I found myself grinding in his lap against the rapidly hardening bulge in his breeches that revealed just how much he enjoyed the idea of using his magic book to impregnate me at will.

“So,” I said breathily, continuing to grind – we were basically dry-humping at this point, and I was so aroused at this point that I suspected that I might be able to get off just from this, “what’s the ethical dilemma?”

“The book does have one minor detrimental property,” he explained, “in that satisfying one’s partner then places that partner under the effects of a Charm Person spell. Of course I’d never do that to someone without their consent,” he said hurriedly, “and with Mystra it was never a concern because as a Goddess, she’s immune to Charm spells,” I scowled at the mention of her name, “but with you, my love…” his right hand left my hip to gently stroke my face, soothing away my frown, “...you have no such immunity.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “Oh, sweetheart, is THAT what you’re worried about? I don’t think I could be any more ‘Charmed’ than I already have been by just your – what did you call them? – ‘native talents.’ And it’s not like a Charm Person spell can make someone do something that they’re completely unwilling to do.”

“That’s actually the problem,” he said, tone turning serious. “I’ve heard rumor that when the book’s gifts are used on a partner who is already as enamored as you so inexplicably are with me, it can have… other effects. Change them.”

“Change them how?” I prodded him.

“You could find yourself consumed by desperation to please me. The book could make you more pliant, much more… submissive,” he continued, his voice low with a hint of darkness creeping in as he gently thumbed my lower lip.

My brain short-circuited and I heard myself blurt, “I want you to read the book.”

“Oh, darling, you have no idea what you’re saying,” he sighed and leaned his forehead against mine. “It would be far beyond the games we’ve played. You’d still have your safeword, but the book could strip you of your desire to ever use it.”

“I want you to read the book,” I repeated, gently cupping his face in my hands, my entire body on fire at the idea of giving up that much control to him. It was terrifying, and thrilling, and deeply erotic.

“It doesn’t wear off as fast as a regular Charm Person spell,” he warned me, “The effects last for a year and a day,” my core pulsed with need at the thought of being under his spell for so long, “and that hourglass would reset every time I brought you to ecstasy. You could fall deeper and deeper under my control until you could no longer dream of wanting to escape it.” I trembled at the idea that it could effectively become permanent.

“I want you to read the book,” I said again, and kissed him deeply.

As I pulled back from the kiss, I could tell that he was as affected by the idea of it as I was. His skin was flushed, his pupils blown wide, he trembled slightly, there was a slight hitch in his breath, I could feel his heart hammering where our chests had pressed together, and he now had an erection so hard that I could feel every inch of it through the layers of our clothing.

“I don’t understand,” he protested half-heartedly, sounding almost broken with desire and longing. “How could you want something like that? Why would you give yourself so completely to someone like me?”

“Gale,” I said firmly, and began punctuating my statements with more kisses. “I love you.” Kiss. “I trust you completely.” Kiss. “I love submitting to you.” Kiss. “And I’ve wished for a while now that it could be more than just a game we play in bed.” Kiss. “I know how hard it was for you to give up the Crown of Karsus, because you’ve ‘always liked the idea of being worshiped. Adored. Obeyed,’” I quoted. He looked away in slight embarrassment, but didn’t deny it.

“If you think you could be content with a single worshiper,” I continued, giving his face one last gentle caress as I slid off his lap and onto the balcony floor, “then I would love to spend the rest of my life getting on my knees for you.”

I posed myself carefully before him. Knees spread, hands clasp behind my back, back slightly arched to thrust my tits forward, head bowed submissively. I silently trembled with desire and anticipation as I waited for his answer.

“I will read the book,” he declared as he stood up. “But it will require weeks of study to acquire its powers.” I could hear him unfastening the ties on his breeches. “You will use that time to prove to me just how much you want this, and if I’m not convinced by the time I reach the final page then I will not complete it,” he warned. 

My mind began whirling with all the delightfully degrading things I could do for him to prove my devotion. Through the lashes of my downcast gaze I could see his pants falling to his ankles, confirming that we were of like minds of what sort of “proof” he had in mind.

He gripped my jaw firmly and titled my head upward, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

“Do you understand?” he demanded. 

I’d never seen such an expression on his face before – perhaps I’d caught glimpses of something like it on the battlefield, or seen a ghost of it flicker across his face the first time I’d asked him to dominate me in bed – but nothing like this. He radiated power, desire, command, and more than just a hint of darkness.

“Yes, sir,” I agreed enthusiastically.

“Good girl,” he said approvingly. 

His praise washed over me like a blessing as he guided my mouth to the weeping head of his erect cock.

#BG3 #Baldur's Gate 3 #BG3 smut #Gale #Gale of Waterdeep #Gale Dekarios #Gale BG3 #BG3 Gale #Gale/Author #Gale x Author #Author/Gale #Author x Gale #Modern Character in Faerun #MCIF #Modern Girl in Faerun #MGIF #bg3 fanfic prompt #fanfic prompt #fic prompt #writing prompt #i cannot write and yet my brain is filled with plot bunnies #i must release them into the wild to find sustenance #fanfic authors pls #I have the brainrot #i wrote this instead of going to therapy #please just kill me now before I die of embarrassment #oh you always liked the idea of being worshipped adored and obeyed? well i would be delighted to get on my knees for you sir #it's a beautiful day in faerun and i am a horrible author self insert

[brisquad-unit-4402]

iluna and details

whenever i see anime characters i'm always fascinated by if they were more realistic, or more detailed, you know, the little elements of people that animation studios just don't have the budget nor time nor medium to depict. so this ficlet is a love letter to all the beautiful parts of people that can't really be captured until you're living in their lovely presence!

this wasn't originally an iluna post. it was actually for all of the nijien boys, you see, i worked on it as a warmup before my bigger projects, and a place for me to practice shorter fic. but i was so charmed by the concept and how fun these were to write that i wanted the girls in on this too...! i'll slowly work on the other units as time goes on and i work on more projects

tags: established relationship, fluff, gender neutral reader

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

🤟 Kyo Kaneko

He calls himself an asshole and you'd be the first to agree. He's comfortable enough with you to poke fun at you, and when you tease back it's a game you both play to win. He's yours, after all, and it rolls off him like water off a duck's back, because he knows when to back off or go all in. His energy shines moonlight into the pitch dark. No matter what, he always has something to say that makes the night seem so much less bleak.

But the moon needs to sink to calm, and he stays late into the night with drive fierce enough to silence himself. He sits at his desk. Candy blue hair is swept back in a headband, but the dyed locks curl out in front of his face as he writes.

He is so determined, and the stars against his back wish they had his grit. The pencil wavers, bounces, swings this way and that as he thinks. The eraser presses the skin underneath his lip before the answer comes to him.

For all the resolve in his apple-green eyes are, the lids can barely sustain it. There are too many thoughts for one body to hold. The night creeps longer and his eyelashes flutter closed.

You see what the moon sees in him, this supercharged soul, the light that shines off his wit, the quiet resilience to keep going. Traces of moonbeam cross along his soft skin, the hoodie over his shoulders, hair the color of the sky. The patterns of lights follow as you carry him to bed.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🐰 Maria Marionette

She lives in long sleeves. Your jacket suits her like a charm, even though it's much too big for her little body. Especially because it's too big for her body. It's so rare to see her without long socks that stretch far above the hem of her skirt.

Her knit socks brush against your legs as she sits. The movie has long been forgotten by you in favor of admiring her delicacy. She fits so perfectly in your lap, a stand to a centerpiece, a matching set, do not separate.

When she recognizes the look in your eye she curls closer to you, and when she can't get enough she musters up the courage to slip off her jacket.

Along the bends of her arms and the links upon her fingers you see everything she is so scared of. Sweeping lines stretch across her skin, pale and geometric, and perfectly wrapped around the diameter. They're symmetrical. Ball joints. Articulation imprinted in scars, the only sign flesh was once porcelain.

She is so gorgeous in her vulnerability. She is so gorgeous in her everything, her body and soul, no matter the form. You press your lips along the white scarring between her knuckles.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

💫 Aster Arcadia

He has to be one of the most intricate pieces of art in the world. There’s no other explanation. His makeup never fades even as his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and when he presses his lips together right before laughing out loud.

And sometimes you can’t even tell when it’s grooming or just how harmonious he was formed. His makeup never fades, but his air sparkles, thousands of strokes of gas and space dust and matter swirling around his body, the edge of a nebula, the collections of what makes solar systems burst and catch fire.

There is electricity when he moves. The earth bends around him. Not a hair is out of place even in moments when just touching him is like placing your hands against a plasma ball.

He is so beautiful and so unfathomable and so innately himself.

He shivers when you press against sensitivities but you doubt he could ever understand the coursing under your veins, the push and pull of gravity, the molten core. The effect he has on you.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👼 Aia Amare

No matter what she does, she is feather-light. Her steps are easy to miss, so she sneaks up on you without even trying, and when you jump in surprise she titters in musical tones. When she reaches out to touch you, she is your pedestal. Her hands are strong but gentle, the mark of an artist, and the briefest skim against your skin leaves impressions like you are nothing but soft clay.

She is feather, and coated in downy white, and songbird and stars in the clouds. Her heavens soften her. If you didn't know a thing about her, you'd imagine her so fragile that she could float away with a breath.

But for as light as she is, she is intense. Waves roar in time with her noise. There is so much spirit and so much energy within her. The brightness turns blinding, but only when she wants it to.

She slips off the glasses, and you are reminded of the bristles that make up a feather. The lenses mute the color, but without them, cool mint freezes over so strongly that her gaze burns. Pale lashes fame the searing ocean. Slighter than a suggestion, but so prominent you know there is nothing earthly like her, you see the motion of curling rings hidden inside the green and blue. A sprinkling of gold between the rods. The glisten rotates in wheels. Eyes upon eyes upon eyes within eyes. Feather.

She places them back over her eyes, and her artisan hands motion around your body while you're struck with something unknowable. Her league is dimensions away from yours. You're blessed.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🛸 Ren Zotto

You could never mistake him for a simple human. There's too much under his surface even when he tries, but he never does try. The horns upon his head protrude too high to fall under a lowered head.

In bright light, if you can focus, you’d think the green in his veins turns blazing. Focus harder and you realize it runs along the skin itself with the suggestion of a shining, scaled teal, before it disappears entirely.

You swear there's more teal in his hair that isn't swallowed by dark. It's soft and fine as you brush your fingers over him, and you can barely even see the undertone.

"It's not really black," he says. "Human eyes just perceive it as black because they don't have the anatomy for it."

The word- his color- is unpronounceable to human tongues. It requires a trill between fangs you don't have.

But you try anyways, and as it turns into a spit of nothing he laughs with you. You press a kiss to his unpronounceable hair. When his smile relaxes his fang catches on his lip.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

💅 Scarle Yonaguni

She is made entirely from her own creation. Love and care finds a home within her body, and stumbles around clumsily and spreads out through peals of laughter. There is nothing quite like her because she is everything around her; she is ember and she is ash, as much as she is ideal and reality, as much as she is exuberance and moderation. To chase and to heal. Architect of her own path, with so many miracles stored in her fingertips, all of them within simple delights.

Warmth trails through all she touches. The folds in her books, the keyboard turning shiny from use, crosses along the T's and dots above the I's. The way she holds you so tightly as if you were the only source of heat, even though she exudes fire all her own.

Cocoa and cinnamon follow her, a champurrado musk, and you can't place where the spicy scent comes from. It lingers in her hair and along her skin, those miracle fingertips that spend so much love and care of what she enchants, and you are no exception. When she runs her nails along your jawline the smooth blend puts you at ease.

All her cinder catches in your throat. Her touch is hypnosis. It's familiar, and home, and comfort. It's adventure and joy and discovery. You can't get her scent out of your mind, and when it finally grants you peace, the chocolate has already marked you endeared.

#kyo kaneko x reader #maria marionette x reader #aster arcadia x reader #aia amare x reader #ren zotto x reader #scarle yonaguni x reader #kyo kaneko #maria marionette #aster arcadia #aia amare #ren zotto #scarle yonaguni #nijisanji x reader #iluna x reader #nijisanji en #iluna #4402 writes #implied biblically accurate aia amare #yes the rings in her eyes are a reference to ophanim #ren sees shrimp colors #ren I S a shrimp color #tbh i'm not expecting this to get as much reception as my other luxiem posts but let it be known i am here to PROVIDE for the other units #so feel free to request anyone listed in my rules page

[infiniteeight8]

Okay ahhh this is the first time I’ve ever written a prompt I guess?? But after reading like,, most,, of your writings, I honestly just wanted to complement you.

I absolutely ADORE your Ironstrange soul series and am always eager to read more :D (honestly I adore all ur mini series but still)

I know you’ve just finished writing one but I feel as though you enjoy this story just as much as we do ahaha

*beams* Thanks so much! Both for the lovely feedback and for sending in a prompt!

At this point, no one is surprised that this one got long, are they? LOL. Under a read more for length.

Edit: I almost forgot! You can find the first few Tony & Soul ficlets here.

-

Ever since Soul started sharing Stephen’s emotions with Tony, being around him feels like being wrapped in a soft blanket. Call it affection, fondness, friendship; whatever word you used, it felt very, very nice. It also made it kind of hard to be annoyed with him.

“I don’t need to meditate,” Tony argues, sitting cross-legged across from Stephen on the floor of one of the practice rooms. It was nicely padded, at least. “I can just ask Soul.”

“Oh, certainly,” Stephen says dryly. “So when you fly the armor, you just sit there and let FRIDAY do all the work?”

Tony scowled. “You know I don’t.”

Stephen groaned. “And you know that I’m trying to make a point.” A small orange spike shot through the soft blanket feeling.

Well, at least if Tony couldn’t quite be annoyed, Stephen could be annoyed for him.

“I’m not a wizard,” Tony grumbles.

“Neither am I.” Despite the words, a bright flare of amusement illuminates Stephen’s emotions. “Look, don’t think of it as meditation, if that helps,” Stephen goes on. “This of it as…” Tony can feel him casting about for the words, and then a shot of satisfaction as he finds them “...learning a new user interface. Sometimes it’ll be easier to ask Soul for information, like asking FRIDAY. But sometimes it’ll be faster, and easier, to just access the data directly.”

That makes sense. Damn it. Tony sighs. “Okay, fine. Remind me what we were doing?”

“Soul can sense the connections between people,” Stephen says. “You want to try to sense them for yourself.”

“Sense?” Tony groans. “I’m not psychic, Merlin.”

“The word does also apply to the five senses you already have,” Stephen says dryly. “Your perception can represent them however you’re comfortable with processing the data.”

Well, Tony always had been an extremely visual person. There was a reason he built holograms into everything. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath. Soul?

I’m not supposed to do it for you, Soul reminds him.

Yeah, I know. But if I’m accessing a new UI, I need to know where the on button is, right? Just show me that.

Soul considers for a moment. Very well. Relax. Open yourself to me.

Christ, magic was full of hand wavy bullshit. ‘Open yourself to me.’ Still, Tony concentrats on his breathing and tries to relax. Slowly, everything seems to go quiet around him. The feeling that there’s something just on the edge of his vision—closed eyes and all—starts to grow. Tony’s brow wrinkles. He tries to reach, but it seems to retreat. “It feels like I’m nudging it with my fingertips,” he mutters, “and it keeps rolling away.” 

“May I?”

Tony has no idea what Stephen was suggesting, but he nods anyway. Abruptly, the shallow sense he has of Stephen’s emotions deepens like the bottom has fallen out of a well and revealed an ocean. Tony catches his breath, and then it’s like Stephen’s hand is on his, showing him how to lift just enough that the thing he’s reaching for is under his fingertips instead of in front of them. As he makes contact, the sense of that ocean vanishes.

Tony opens his eyes. “Holy shit!” He’s surrounded by threads of light. No, not surrounded—they’re coming out of him.

“Tony? Is everything okay?”

Tony blinks and focuses on Stephen and realizes that one of the strands is connecting him and Stephen, except this one can hardly be called a thread. It’s more like a cord, a good inch in diameter.

“Tony!” Astringent concern floods the soft affection that emanated from Stephen. He’s on his knees now, hands coming to rest on Tony’s shoulders.

“I’m okay,” Tony says. Blinking some more, he manages to meet Stephen’s eyes and smile reassuringly. “Just, I’ve got the new UI working and there’s a lot more information than I was expecting.”

Slowly, Stephen lets his hands slide from Tony’s shoulders. He sits back a little, but stays close. “What does it look like?”

“Like thousands of threads radiating out from me,” Tony says. “They’re all orange, like Soul. There are a few thicker ones, too. There’s one between you and me, and one… Whew. That one’s big.” It’s almost as thick as his wrist, and it stretches off into the distance. Pepper, maybe?

“Concentrate on it,” Stephen suggests. “You should be able to identify the person on the other end.”

Tony stares at it for a moment, but that doesn’t help, so he reaches out carefully, like he would with a hologram, and taps it. Rhodey’s face fills his mind's eye and he grins. “It’s Rhodey.”

“Well done,” Stephen says warmly, and Tony looks back at him, enjoying the buoyant feeling of admiration. “What about the others?”

Looking around, Tony finds another thicker cord. It’s not as solid as the one with Stephen, but definitely substantial. Curious, Tony touches it and sees Pepper. He lets go and swallows hard. “Assuming the thick cords are with people important to me,” he says, “what are all these thin ones?”

“I could guess, but I assume Soul can tell you,” Stephen says.

Anyone who thinks about you regularly has a connection with you, Soul explains. You have many because you are very well known. Most have never met you. 

Tony relates that to Stephen, frowning. “I’m not sure I like being connected to people I’ve never met, who I never asked to be connected to.”

“It’s only a representation,” Stephen reassures him. “You matter to people, Tony. As a hero, or a role model, or a business interest. That’s the same as it ever was.”

“But with Soul, it’s more than just a representation, isn’t it?” Tony touches the connection between him and Stephen lightly. He doesn’t try to affect it, but he knows he could. Soul sends a feeling of affirmation and Tony knows that Stephen has received it as well from the way his expression goes thoughtful.

“Well,” Stephen says eventually, “I suppose that’s one of the responsibilities of being a stone bearer. They bring us power, and we have to choose how to use it, and when. I could turn back time every time the outcome of some encounter displeased me. I don’t, because I know these abilities aren’t to be used lightly.”

Tony takes a breath. “I’m not sure I’m the guy you want carrying that kind of power around.”

Stephen laughs and Tony shoots him an offended look. “I’m sorry,” Stephen says, still chuckling. “I don’t mean to make light of your concerns, but of everyone in the world, you’d be my first choice to carry that kind of power around. You chose to protect people when you could have lived a life of ease. But more than that, between your wealth, your genius, and your fame, you have plenty of experience with influence and how seductive it is and how careful you have to be with it.” Stephen smiles at Tony. “I can’t think of a better man to wield Soul.”

It’s all Tony can do to hold back the blush. He clears his throat and tries to keep his tone light. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

It comes out a little too sincere, but that isn’t too scary with the soft blanket of Stephen’s affection wrapped around him.

#IronStrange #ficlet

[bookshelf-dust]

slumber party shenanigans

based on this ask from @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles

word count: 470 (look i did it!!)

a/n: you’re such a little shit (lovingly). i hope you like this and i appreciate the challenge <33

————

🖋️ want another blanket?—i will write you a little ficlet (under 1000 words) for the character of your choice. i would appreciate if you’d specify whether you want comfort/fluff/angst/whatever and i will try and come up with something for you!

The door slams shut and you hear the thud of Eddie’s boots, the jingle of his keys, as you finish washing and putting away the dishes. He didn’t call to say he was coming over, but you know why he’s here.

He walks up behind you. “Why didn’t you come tonight?”

You rinse off a spoon, set it on a towel. “Didn’t realize I was obligated to attend all of your shows.” Your voice is sharp.

“You’re not. You’ve just never missed one without telling me.”

You scrub at a plate, squeeze out your sponge.

“Guess I didn’t want to stay and wait for you to finish making out with what’s-her-fuck backstage, just for you to come out and say ‘Oh, sorry, Jeff needed my help.’ Bullshit,” you mumble the last bit to yourself.

“What are you talking about?” Eddie’s face is burning. He knows exactly what you’re talking about. But if you’re not together, why do you care?

“Stop acting like a dumbass, Munson,” you snap.

Eddie reaches in front of you and shuts the water off. You spin, quickly drying your hands on a towel.

“So what you just showed up here to get in my way and play coy? Or do you have something to say?”

Eddie straightens his back out and crosses his arms. Sometimes you forget that he’s tall.

“Since when do you care who I make out with?”

“I don’t give a shit about what you do, Eddie. But I do care that you’ve been sticking your tongue down the throat of a girl who bullied the shit out of me in middle school.”

You’ve told Eddie about this. He just didn’t know that’s who it was. A shiver runs down his spine.

“Every night that I come see you play, she sits across from me and watches my reactions to you. She follows you backstage and when she’s done, she looks at me and she’s proud that she has you and I don’t.”

Your hands are shaking and you grip the counter behind you to steady yourself.

“You do have me,” Eddie says, voice breaking.

“Not in the way I want.”

What? There’s no way. Eddie’s only been making out with that chick because he’s trying to stop thinking about you in that way. Suddenly he’s very angry.

“Well then maybe you should’ve tried harder to get me.” The words are out before Eddie can stop them.

That hurt you, and Eddie can see it.

“Go.” You’re not looking at him.

Eddie doesn’t move. You pick up his keys and throw them at him. He catches them before they can hit the floor. “Y/N—”

“Get out, Eddie.” He can tell by the tone in your voice that you don’t want to say it again.

Eddie turns and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

#eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x gn!reader #eddie munson x reader #bookshelf-dust’s 500 follower celebration #bookshelf-dust’s slumber party

[cricketnationrise]

4:24pm jack's apartment tater

:D

okay for some reason my instinct is to write sad tater but i battled against that bc i didn't want to be sad today. thanks for the prompt, hope you like it!

want your own ficlet? TWO DAYS LEFT rules here.

🏒🏒🏒🏒

jack's apartment, 4:24pm

“But consider this,” Jack is saying, as Bitty pushes him towards the door, “I could stay here instead.”

“You are just the sweetest thing, aintcha? But we both know you’ll melt if you’re away from ice any longer you big Canadian moose. Go skate with Shitty – I know you’ve missed him somethin’ fierce since he was here after the Cup.”

Tater sniggers into the couch cushions at the sight of Jack Laurent Zimmermann – college graduate with honors, top five for the Rocket Richard and Art Ross, runner up for the Conn Smythe, Calder Cup Winner, and Stanley Cup Champion – pouting at his boyfriend.

“Bits—”

“Get out of here, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty laughs. “We’ll be just fine on our own, and we’ll be here when you get back.”

“Fine.” Jack leans in for one more kiss and Bitty pushes up into the contact so easily that Tater actually looks away, feeling a little like he’s intruding – only looking up again at the sound of the door closing.

Bitty collects Tater’s evening meds and a slice of pie for both of them before making his way back into the living room, shaking his head fondly. “Never thought I’d see the day when Jack Zimmermann was whining about going to the rink. Somewhere pigs are flyin’.”

“Seem to me like good reason to pout: Little B staying home.”

“You’re sweet as all get out.”

“Am best,” Tater confirms before shoveling blueberry pie into his mouth with a groan of pleasure.

“How’s your leg today? Still sore after PT today?”

“Da. But feels stronger. I’ll be back to start next season I’m thinking.”

Bitty does a little dance in his seat in celebration. “Tater, that’s fantastic! I’m so pleased for you, hon.”

“Is rough, no skate, no running, only bike and swimming sometimes. Feel с ума – not sure what English is – like not wanting to sit still, but forced to.”

“Oh, stir-crazy?” Tater nods. “I totally get that – I got a bad concussion my frog year, couldn’t do anything with impact until the start of the next season. I didn’t think I would miss running in the Georgia heat, but Lord, I would have given anything just to go for a jog, I was so bored.”

Tater lifts his plate and waggles his eyebrows. “Pie helps lots. Would be sad without.”

“Well we can’t have that,” Bitty says, mock seriously before sitting up straight. “Now, to business. Jack will be gone for at least two hours, probably closer to three since Shitty will drag him out for dinner after.”

“We have time to finish Drag Race?”

“We do indeed.”

“Was wrong before. Little B is best.”

Bitty doesn’t say anything, just smiles at Tater fondly, grabs the remote and settles himself against Tater’s side, tucked safely under Tater’s arm. His leg is sore, he’s itching to get back to the ice and conditioning, but Bitty has a way of making all his frustration melt away. 

#cricket writes #ficlet fest 3 #omgcp #check please #tater #seriously this almost went so angsty #WHY is that my instinct with this giant teddy bear man #sweatersinthesummer #ficlet

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

Proper Wing Care

----

Roman isn't that great at taking care of his wings himself, so Virgil has to step in sometimes.

----

| Ao3 |

Warnings: None

Pairings: Prinxiety

Word Count: 481

Notes:

This is a tiny little ficlet for Day 2 (I'm a little late yes shh) of @prinxietyweek (the prompt being Feathered Wings)

This fic also takes place in the same universe as 'We'll Save You' because I'm trying to write little extras for some of my aus (even though the main fic isn't finished cough coughfdklflsd) This likely takes place before Janus came into the picture, but really it could fit anywhere.

I'm also not doing all the days, so there's that.

----

“Stop moving then, you dunce,” Virgil hissed, gently prodding at Roman’s tawny feathered wings, “Your wings need preening, this is your fault.”

“But I hate preening,” Roman whined, his wing almost whacking Virgil straight in the face as he moved again out of spite, “You’re always so mean about it.”

“Just because you’re always so resistant,” Virgil said, grumbling as he gently pulled Roman’s wings back into the position he needed them in for what must be the hundredth time since they’d started twenty minutes ago, “It’s only this bad because you avoid it and then complain that your feathers are messy.”

Roman groaned, leaning backwards until Virgil had no choice but to catch him around the waist to make sure he didn’t fall completely - Roman’s head settled backwards on Virgil’s shoulder. He pressed a chaste kiss to Virgil’s jaw and Virgil chuckled, reaching back to ruffle Roman’s bonfire-like hair.

“So you want me to do your ear tufts first, huh?” Virgil teased, he’d barely touched one of the outer feathers when Roman squawked, scuttling back to put an arms length of distance between them, his wings fluffed up to the point where he looked like an angry puffball. Virgil couldn’t help but laugh. 

“You know you’ll feel better once it’s done,” Virgil said, rolling his eyes, “And you usually like me touching your feathers, I don’t get why you hate this so much.”

“It’s just so- picky!” Roman pretested, folding his arms, “And you always tease me!”

Virgil sighed with a soft, fond smile, “If I agree not to tease you, will you sit still so I can preen your wings?”

After considering for a second, Roman hummed, “Let me sit in your lap as well and we have a deal.”

It was harder to reach the wings when Roman was too close to him, but in the end Virgil relented and let Roman sit in his lap as he systematically ran his fingers through Roman’s thick feathers - straightening any that were out of place, getting out any that were broken or stuck after molting and of course making sure the wings were properly oiled and clean. 

Roman said he hated it - but that was really just because Virgil teased him endlessly about how he let it get bad enough that Virgil had to step in every time. Virgil was almost certain - somehow he could tell by the now half dozing Roman in his arms - that Roman secretly enjoyed it when Virgil did it. 

And if - once Virgil was finished ensuring Roman’s wings and ear tufts were in the correct state - Roman dragged Virgil to the centre of their nest of a bed so that they could fall asleep cuddling with Roman’s newly preened wings wrapped firmly around them both like a feathered blanket… 

Well, Virgil certainly wasn’t going to deny any opportunity to cuddle his partner, now was he?

----

General tags: @full-of-roman-angst-trash @your-local-random-dino @cutebisexualmess @glacierruler @roseianxiety @bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti (if anyone wants to be added, let me know!)

#prinxietyweek2023 #sanders sides #roman sanders #virgil sanders #ts roman #ts virgil #prinxiety #fanfiction #fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #rowans writings

[olderthannetfic]

Holocaust deniers, people who get mad at "forced diversity" (read: any non-white OC, focusing on non-white characters, mentioning any religion other than Christianity, etc.) and anti-queer people are a plague in the comments of Danny Phantom fics on FFN. The vast majority of the DP fandom uses FFN and doesn't want to move over to AO3, basically because there's so much fanfic for it there, so many collections of fics, etc. that it's what everyone's familiar with and has the most content.

I'm really torn because I want readers, obviously - I like the story I'm writing and I want other people to get to read it and enjoy it - but as a Jewish Arab I am a bit hesitant to walk into a place where I know some bullshit is going to ensue. Do you have any advice? Any ways I could possibly minimize the amount of bad comments I get? I know someone who wrote more queer ficlets every time she got a hateful comment on her queer content in the fandom and that did a lot to get people to stop, especially when she mentioned them in the summaries and author's notes as the inspiration that keeps her writing. And I love that, but I can't always get inspired, sit down and hammer out one-shots on the spot like she can.

I know this fandom is like this because the creator is the kind of conservative other conservatives cringe at (especially ever since his church tried to raise a kid from the dead). I know some of this is inevitable in fanfic, since nobody only gets purely positive comments. But if there's something I can do to minimize the amount of garbage I get, I would like to. And I know you've been in fandom much longer than I have (I mean I'm 18 so most people have but you know what I mean) so I thought maybe you might have some tips.

Sorry for the long, rambly comment. I know you get a lot of asks and normally I don't bother other people about my concerns. Learning to manage my own concerns and worries is part of growing up. But I think asking other people for insight is good too, sometimes.

(P.S. you've gotten me into knitting and it's really fun. My mom always said I was too old to learn but you're an adult and you got into it so that made me decide to take the plunge and I'm really happy I did.)

--

Your mom is silly! People get into crafts at all ages!

I think for the trolls on FFN, the general culture there respects the same kind of aggressive douchebaggery they dish out. If you appear totally unbothered and fire back at them, they see it as strength. If you're too nice or too upset, they smell blood in the water. A "LOLOLOL Fuck you too!" attitude will go a long way.

Whether it's worth dealing with them is another story.

[midnights-dragon]

Nightingale's Lament (Azricrow s3 speculation ficlet, 1.8k)

Crowley has to drive Aziraphale somewhere in the Bentley. They aren't talking. The Bentley is not going to stand for that.

I love the forced proximity trope, and by Neil’s ‘they aren’t talking’, it seems that that may be where we’re headed. And so I raise to you, a thought I had while driving and pulled over to write out. Obviously I've just gone completely insane over that one (1) thing Neil Gaimen said, as well as the s3 confirmation, so enjoy this brain-child one-shot that I had WHILE DRIVING and PULLED OVER MY FUCKING CAR to write it on my phone. Comments very appreciaciated for my own sanity as I am sacrificing the studying I should be doing for my final exams tomorrow in order to obsess over these tragic little gay men (gn). [Ao3 link if you'd prefer]

Crowley, as unfortunate as he may find it, had been tasked with driving himself as well as Aziraphale to someplace in Scotland. It's where the Second Coming is meant to happen, eventually, and so they're meant to be scouring out the lay of the land.

He also suspects that it's a ploy from Nina and Maggie, as well as Muriel, to force him and Aziraphale to work together with just the two of them. And to that he says, the three of them underestimate how stubborn he and Aziraphale can be.

Crowley storms from the bookshop (where most of their planning has been taking place, especially since it's conveniently close to the elevator to Heaven, where Aziraphale has to return, sometimes; he hates it, Crowley can tell, not that he would ever care, right?) and, with a sneer that he slips on as a mask to cover the real emotion stretched across his face, he yanks open the door to the backseat.

He tells the angel to sit there, more or less. Not with his words, but rather, with glares out of the corner of his eye beneath his sunglasses that he never takes off; with a flourish of his hand and a wave of dark-painted fingernails in Aziraphale's reddened face; with the way he blocks the passenger's side door with his lean frame, and clearly jabs his thumb towards the back.

You've lost your place at my side, he seems to say, even if he is not talking aloud, even if he does not look at Aziraphale as the angel obeys the silent command and slips into the backseat of the Bentley. He doesn't mean it, not really. What he means to say is, I want you to sit beside me, but I don't know what I would do if you did. What he means to say is, I can't control myself, being so close to you, being alone. What he means to say is, I need to keep up with this not talking, because if I don't, if we don't, then I don't know how I could bear it.

But he doesn't say any of those things, and Aziraphale does not hear them. They aren't talking. Sometimes they'll speak (usually in gestures, rather than words), but even when they do, they aren't looking at each other. They aren't talking.

Crowley gets into the driver's seat and is silent. He says nothing. He throws the car into drive more aggressively than necessary, and almost feels bad about it, but doesn't, when he catches the flash of white that is Aziraphale adjusting himself for Crowley 'going too fast for him' in the rear-view mirror. The demon growls a little, grinding his back teeth together, and then speeds down the streets of Soho until he makes it to a winding back road that will take them to their destination.

They aren't talking. The car is silent.

As it happens, the car does not appreciate that.

As Crowley turns down the road at a speed that is very illegal, the Bentley jolts, and the demon suddenly finds himself unable to pass forty on the speedometer. He blinks, slow and confused, and his eyes are smoldering behind his sunglasses.

"The fuck?" He growls, low and rumbling, and he smacks at the dashboard repeatedly, pressing his foot down all the way as he bares his teeth and hisses at his car. In the backseat, Aziraphale flinches at the sound of the demon's voice — it is raspy and gravelly, almost smoky with how unused it has become, how deadened.

The Bentley hums (cars couldn't sound smug, logically, but it was a very near thing), seemingly unconcerned with Crowley's frustration that is rapidly accelerating into rage, and then begins to softly croon a gentle ballad of a song from the stereo, the peaceful sound of it filling the silence of the car with a song that both Crowley and Aziraphale recognize all too well from countless nights out at the Ritz together.

There was magic abroad in the air There were angels dining at the Ritz And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square . . .

In the rear-view mirror, behind his sunglasses, Crowley's gaze flits to Aziraphale despite himself — only for a moment, but a moment that says enough. Aziraphale is frozen, and his own eyes are shining brightly with things left unsaid. His eyes — his eyes — his eyes that are violet. 

His violet eyes, which yanks Crowley out of whatever stupor he was in. His violet eyes, because he had made his choice, and it wasn't Crowley. His violet eyes, because he was sitting in the backseat for a reason, and they weren't talking, and Aziraphale never even looked at him anymore, which was a relief, honestly, because Crowley didn't know if he could take looking into those goddamn fucking violet eyes for a moment longer.

Crowley slams down hard on the brakes and rips the keys from the ignition, his chest heaving, his hands shaking. A car behind him blares its horn and swerves around him (thanks to a well-placed miracle from Aziraphale, not that Crowley would ever admit it). Crowley flips them the bird, uncaring and angry, and grieving and hurt and not wanting to listen to the goddamn fucking song for a moment longer, not wanting to see Aziraphale's goddamn fucking violet eyes in his fucking rear-view mirror for any second more. He slams his hand down on the dashboard, again and again and again, over and over, his claws digging into the leather, his eyes squeezing shut and a pained, strangled noise clawing its way up his throat as he slams his palm down, again and again and again.

He is grieving, and he is hurting, and he is angry.

Behind him, Aziraphale is looking away, his goddamn fucking violet eyes welled up with tears not unsimilar to the ones in Crowley's serpentine gaze, white sclera swallowed up by yellow. Aziraphale is looking away, and he is not talking, because he never looks at Crowley anymore, never talks to Crowley anymore, and Crowley both is grateful to him for it and hates him for it, because he wouldn't be able to bear it, but god, he wants to.

Crowley grieves, and hurts, and rages, and Aziraphale cries silently, and does not speak, does not look — and still, their song continues to play defiantly on.

The streets of town were paved with stars It was such a romantic affair And when you turned and smiled at me A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square . . .

"I'm — I'm — I'm not fucking doing this right now," Crowley snarls at his car, hissing between his teeth, blinking hard and fast and willing the tears culminating and burning at his cheeks to just fucking leave him the fuck alone. The Bentley simply hums her engine (despite the keys being gripped in one of Crowley's hands, decidedly not in the ignition, why the fuck did he make her sentient, again?), and the music becomes impossibly louder, and Crowley thinks he could cry, but he cannot, he must not, because — because he couldn't do that now, he couldn't, couldn't bear it, couldn't take it —

I still remember when you smiled and said Was that a dream or was it true? —

And then, above it all, by some cocktail party effect bullshit, because the car was practically screaming with that fucking song —

"Crowley."

Aziraphale said his name. Aziraphale said his name, and Aziraphale is looking at him, and Aziraphale is talking to him, and Crowley had sworn he wouldn't look back, wouldn't talk back, couldn't and mustn't and every other thing in the goddamn world, but fuck, he couldn't take it.

Crowley's gaze flits back to the rear-view mirror, and he thinks that he might choke when he sees the raw grief in Aziraphale's eyes — his violet eyes, he reminds himself, his violet eyes, but — but he can't bring himself to even care, because it's Aziraphale, and he's looking at him, even though they're both grieving, and angry, and afraid.

"Don't — don't be too angry with her, my dear," Aziraphale whispers, and he's still looking at Crowley, still talking to him, and the words my dear seemed to reverberate around the sudden quietness of the car, because Crowley could hear nothing, see nothing, but Aziraphale, who was looking at him, and talking to him. "Or, erm, try not to, I suppose." Aziraphale was wringing his hands together, and his gaze had gone downcast, but he was still talking. "She's — well, she's only trying to help, after all. Only trying to — to make things good, yes?"

Crowley opens his mouth to speak, and chokes on his words. A horribly strangled noise rasps its way from his throat, and he does look away, then, forcing himself to because he can't bear it, and he rests his forehead against the wheel of his car. He's shaking.

He's so tired.

He's grieving, and he's angry, and he's afraid, and he's so goddamn tired.

"I know," Crowley whispers at last, his voice broken like gravel, shattered like glass. He doesn't bother fighting the small, strangled sound that comes out as a whimper and spills from his trembling lips. "I know."

He leans down, and twists the key back into the ignition.

The engine hums appreciatively, and the song continues to play, looping back from the beginning.

That certain night The night we met There was magic abroad in the air . . .

Crowley lifts his head, lifts his deadened, dull gaze, and allows himself one sinful glance back at Aziraphale. The angel isn't looking at him anymore; he's staring down at his hands, and his violet eyes have welled up with tears that cast a pale sheen and makes them look almost blue, and he looks so tired. He looks like he is, just as Crowley is, grieving, and angry, and hurting, and so, so goddamn tired, in every sense of the word.

Crowley sighs. It's an exhausted, broken sound, and it speaks more than he could say in a thousand words of finest poetry.

"I know," he repeats, and he isn't talking about his car.

And then he leans back, and gently presses down on the gas, and continues to drive with Aziraphale sitting in the backseat, their song playing softly over the stereo. They don't talk to each other, and they don't look at each other. But that one single moment with their song, the acknowledgement of a nightingale, of their nightingale, of what their nightingale represented, even with so few words, it — it meant something.

It meant that perhaps, one day, they would be able to rest. Together. Past their grief, and anger, and fear, and hurt, and exhaustion; finding peace, and home, and love, in each other's arms.

And perhaps, as they rested, a nightingale would sing faintly in the distance. They wouldn't hear it, and nobody would know. But it would be there, all the same.

But for now, they did not speak, and they did not acknowledge anything past the nightingale, and for now — until they could rest with peace, with each other, with their love — that would have to be enough.

I may be right, I may be wrong But I'm perfectly willing to swear That when you turned and smiled at me A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

#the beginning of the end #they both just really need to rest #in each others arms #good omens #good omens 3 #good omens s3 #crowley x aziraphale #ficlet #good omens ficlet #crowley fanfic #aziraphale fanfic #ineffable idiots #the bentley #good omens angst #good omens fanfic #good omens fandom

[queenburd]

I'm still writing TSP fics! I've been primarily writing Parable Actors ficlets that are confined to the discord server, but I've been thinking about classic TSP stuff, so here is a piece about how the Narrator's memories work.

Takes place in TSP HD, after lotus eaters and the flashback that's seen in in-game motivation, part 1. It also uses the pause feature that is mentioned in pause. None of these are necessary reading, but if you like my writing and want to see how Stanley and the Narrator have gotten to this point, then I would appreciate if you checked them out!

CW for an incomplete Zending run.

|.|.|.|

“Stanley, please,” the Narrator says, voice weak, “let’s go back to the other room. Please?”

Stanley swallows, looking up at the stairs. He shakes his head.

“You don’t have to do this, you know you don’t.”

He sits on the first landing, looking at his shoes where they rest on the steps.

The Narrator promised he would reset.

“I will! I will reset, soon, as soon as I’m ready, like we agreed!”

Stanley grimaces and gets to his feet. He ascends a flight and the fellow groans in frustration.

“Please, Stanley! I just wanted to be in there a little longer, you said I could—!”

He fell into the trap again.

It’s hit or miss, with the starry room. The Narrator is still trying to find his own sense of empowerment. The peace the room affords him can become addicting, drawing him in and in and in. It quiets his mind like nothing else does, and he’s loathe to leave it.

But sometimes, he can manage it. Sometimes, he can take his fill, then sigh happily and reset the game, refreshed and renewed, and ready to do and be more. Sometimes he can free himself of the siren song, stop eating the lotus flowers, and continue sailing, as Odysseus did.

This is not one of those times.

Stanley doesn’t want to do this! He doesn’t like it—doesn’t like putting himself or the voice through this experience. He finds no power in it, not like others might, nor does he find catharsis. Yet he has little choice—he has no other way to free them from this ending. There’s no other way out.

“There is! Please, just listen to me, just go back and we’ll relax and then I’ll reset!”

It won’t. He knows that. It wants to believe it will, but deep down, the voice knows.

Stanley makes it to the top landing, and steps off.

“No no no no no!”

The Narrator’s voice breaks as he makes impact. Stanley gasps as he pulls himself off the ground. There’s no blood—some pain, but no centered to any point of him. It’s diffused through all of him.

Still hurts like a bitch. He’s limping to the steps again, noticeably slower, when the Narrator says, frantic, “I’ll reset, I’ll reset, I’m resetting, I’m—“

THEENDISNEVERTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDISLOADING

Stanley braces his palms on the edge of his desk, and thinks in the same moment the Narrator speaks:

[ "Pause." ]

He inhales sharply, and then relaxes into his office chair. The Narrator lets him sit quietly, gathering his thoughts, before the fellow speaks.

“Stanley? Is everything okay?”

He lifts a hand in a seesaw gesture, and lets it fall into his lap.

What does the Narrator remember?

The response he gets is a thoughtful hum, noticeably without distress. “Let me see—if I recall correctly, we went through the red door in the warehouse, yes?”

Stanley nods. The Narrator continues calmly.

“Well, then I must have managed to reset without issue.”

All at once, Stanley feels very tired.

“Oh. I didn’t manage it, did I?”

On his part, the fellow seems at least politely apologetic. And, really, Stanley doesn’t hold it against him, that he can’t remember, nor that he struggles with the issue every time. It’s why he’s not even angry, or upset, about this. He’s just… tired. Resigned, perhaps.

The voice sighs gently. “Will you tell me what happened?”

He offers the memory.

“No, please; in your own words, if you don’t mind. I’d rather not force you to relive it.”

That’s generous, he thinks. He can oblige.

They went through the red door. They were in the room with the lights for a while. The Narrator stopped talking to Stanley, and didn’t respond when Stanley asked to reset. So Stanley had left.

He had gone to the stairwell.

“Yes, I think—yes,” the voice interrupts. “I had tried to tell you to go back, but you did end up falling before I finally forced a reset. Oh, Stanley, I am sorry,” it says, with real sorrow.

It—remembered?

“Yes, though not without prompting, I’m afraid.”

How? It hadn’t remembered before, what had changed?

“I—um—oh, look.”

Stanley’s monitor display—changes.

The black screen disappears, instead displaying a desktop, with task bar and icons. As he watches, the folder icon is clicked, quickly opening a window that displays more folders.

“Now, this is simply a visual metaphor, you understand, yes? Imagine, perhaps, my mind is the computer, and the files inside house all the different bits of me. However, I am also the person navigating the computer. Are you with me so far?”

Stanley presses his hands together and rests his elbows on the desk, then his chin on his hands. He was… kind of following.

“Now, imagine every memory is a file. Every run is located somewhere in the computer, you see? All my scripts, every word I have said and every thought I have had, it’s here, somewhere.”

Then why does he not remember certain things?

“Stanley I am getting to that, you’ve always been so terribly impatient,” the voice huffs at him, eliciting an eyeroll. “Honestly, you wouldn’t know good set-up and pay off if it bit you in the arse thirty minutes from now, after I’ve foreshadowed it.”

Yap yap yap. He frees one of his hands to open and close it like a talking mouth.

“Oh for God’s—no, no,” the Narrator interrupts sharply. “I will not get irritated, I will not become distracted, I am going to explain this because this is important.”

He inhales deeply, and exhales slowly, and as he does Stanley sits back again, focusing once more on his screen. Curiously, he moves his mouse and double-clicks on a folder.

More folders, and a collection of files with names that were just a garble of letters and numbers.

He clicks a folder.

More folders, and a collection of files with names that were just a garble of letters and numbers.

He clicks a folder.

More folders—

Oh.

“Yes,” the Narrator says, “You see? I simply don’t know where the memory is. I need guidance. I need to know where to look.”

Stanley sits back.

“Mind you, it’s not a perfect metaphor. Sometimes I do have an idea of where to start, a path or—“

An Adventure Line™️, his mind adds unhelpfully.

“A-hah, not, not quite. But you see, when you give me the starting point, you can lead me to the correct file, do you see?”

Kind of, yes. The thing is, Stanley didn’t understand computers too well, so some of the metaphor didn’t make a lot of sense.

“Alright, let’s try a different example. Let’s take the office, for an example. Let’s say we have the office, with its many halls and doors, and behind a door, somewhere, is the memory. The problem is, I’m not sure which door. But say you know the building, so you can wind through the halls and lead me to the correct door, and I just need to open it.”

Okay. So…. The Narrator’s memories were lost, but not gone. If Stan gave him context, he could get to the memory himself?

“I do believe that’s the case! It is, I think, a matter of experimentation to confirm my theory, but I do believe the fact that you and I have a rapport now is what makes this even possible. Could you imagine, if we hadn’t come to a sort of truce, what would have happened? Why, I probably wouldn’t even know there was a missing memory to even search for!”

Stanley’s mouth curls down. Yeah. He could imagine.

“…oh.”

The single utteration feels heavy. There is a long pause.

Then;

“I—I can’t recall if I’ve said it before, how grateful I am to you, Stanley. I—I know we’ve had our differences—“

Issues. Fights. Desperate bids for control—

“—yes, thank you, your point has been made; but I… appreciate that we’ve been able to come to an accord and tried to, to bury the hatchet, so to speak. I… I know I would be far worse off, if you hadn’t… been willing to compromise.”

Stanley crosses his arms, feeling a little off-balance. He imagines getting all that out was absolute hell.

“Honestly?” The Narrator sighs. “Not at all. I really—I really don’t know what I would do without you.”

His eyes fall. The voice asks, a bit hesitant.

“Are we okay? Is this too much?”

Stanley rubs an eye. It… it is a bit much, he thinks. He’s recovering from a bit of a rough reset, and new information, and this still growing connection they have is something he doesn’t know how to talk about, sometimes. It isn’t the first time the Narrator has apologized or thanked him, and their bond isn’t a new one at this point, but there’s still a part of him that doesn’t like looking at the hurt before it. It still feels raw. Maybe because of the ending they just experienced, but still.

“I see. Well,” the voice starts, feigning nonchalance, “I’m ready to go whenever you are, but if you need to pause for a little longer, then I’ll leave you to it for a bit, shall I?”

His screen closes the folders window, but it does not return to the black input display. The voice quiets, not gone, he thinks, but giving him space to think and decompress. It makes no argument, at least, when he double-clicks on the cards icon on his desktop. It lets him play Solitaire in peace.

He doesn’t keep it waiting. He exits the office, hops out the window, and lets it serenade him with a new, silly song. He thinks it is grateful.

It’s getting better. The Narrator is making strides with every run. There are stumbles, in the path, certainly—the last run is an example of one—but each time he gets a little better.

And Stanley is proud of him. And Stanley doesn’t know what he would do without the Narrator, either. Despite everything, he’s—glad. That they have each other. That they’re trying.

That they’re friends.

He’s glad.

#the sparrow parable #the stanley parable #may writes #tsp #the stanley parable hd remake #will crosspost to ao3 tomorrow? or later today. idk

[tooxmanyxships]

A Brocedes fic/ficlet where it’s Nico who had amnesia, but instead of forgetting the last few yrs, he forgot Lewis altogether. Others thought it’s just him getting tired of being constantly ignored, but when asked how his relationship with LH was, he’s genuinely confused and asked, ‘who’s that?’

P.S U can make Nico have a happy ever after with another, JB perhaps? 👀

P.P.S Just want to see what LH’s reaction would be when it’s his turn to be denied, forgotten even, but this time it’s permanent (or semi-permanent) choice is yours. 🤗

I hope you're ready for this pain

It had been a couple of months since Nico had come out of the hospital, mostly recovered.

They said he's been in a coma for a week in there , but of course he doesn't know that.

He can't really remember how he got into the hospital, only that there was some kind of accident with his car.

He does remember waking up to Jenson Button sitting next to his bed, holding his hand.

At first he was still quite out of it. Didn't know why Jenson was holding his hand.

At least he still knew his name and who he was, or it would have been even more awkward.

Jenson, of course, had panicked quite a bit when Nico had flinched away when he tried to cup his cheek.

The doctor had assured him that temporary amnesia was normal for people who've been in a coma. They still took him away to run some tests.

Turned out that Nico had gaps in his mind of things he couldn't remember. Things that were gone out of his memories. Would those memories ever come back? No one really knew.

However, the way Jenson cared about him and did everything he could for him would make Nico fall in love with him all over again.

But he did, eventually, remember his relationship with Jenson and they were happily together once more.

Miraculously they'd been able to keep their private life out of the media since Nico's accident, but now Sky sports was asking for an interview with their former reporter.

Nico had quit his job. Or rather a temporary leave. He wasn't sure if he was ever really going to go back though.

Jenson was still working for Sky and had told his employer that the only way they were getting this interview was if he could be there as well.

He just wanted to be there if Nico needed some help with his memory. He didn't tell Sky that though.

Nico said yes to the interview, if only because he knew he wasn't going to get out of it. And having Jenson there was a big plus.

The interview had been going pretty well, Jenson didn't have to help with the answers all that much at all, but then this weird question came - - -

"Has Lewis been in contact with you after the accident?"

"Who's that?"

There was complete silence. Even Jenson seemed to be rather shellshocked.

Nico just looked confused.

The reporter seemed to think Nico was playing a trick on him or something, because he repeated his question.

"Lewis Hamilton. Has he send you any messages?"

Nico frowned, glancing over at Jenson. "I don't - - -"

"No," Jenson jumped in, "He hasn't sent anything."

Jenson made sure that, on his face, it came across that the conversation about this subject was over.

The interviewer cleared his throat rather awkwardly and gave him some other questions once again.

Once the interview was done and the reporter was gone, Nico turned to Jenson.

"Who's this guy he asked me about?"

Jenson tenses, but manages to keep his voice neutral while answering.

"No one to be worried about."

Nico wants to ask further, but, something in Jenson's eyes tells him not to do it.

He forgets all about that name and the interview all together when he's lying in bed with his boyfriend that night.

Sometimes his partial memory loss is a good thing.

Especially for Jenson this time.

~~~~~~~~~~**********~~~~~~~~~~~

Lewis gets the link to the interview with Nico from so many people, with weird cryptic messages too, so he finally gives in and watch it.

He's retired now, so, he's got the time. That's when he's not playing on the piano and writing songs.

The interview is pretty bland, Lewis thinks, until the hears the interviewer ask Nico about him and he's suddenly all ears.

"Who is that?"

What does he mean? Who is that?!

Is he playing some sick mind game again?!

He hears the reporter repeat the question, Nico looking still completely confused, then Lewis hears and sees Jenson butt in to answer.

Something just doesn't seem right.....

He replays that scene again. And again. Againagainagainagainagain......

He finally closes the interview and grabs his phone.

He debates on texting Nico, but he ends up on some old conversation between him and Jenson and texts him instead.

- LH: Why did Nico ask who I was in that interview? -

- JB: He doesn't remember you. -

- LH: That's not funny, man -

- JB: That's because it's not a joke. Nico has some gaps in his memory since he got out of the coma. You're one of those gaps. -

Lewis just stares at his screen, gripping onto his phone way too tightly.

'You're one of those gaps'.

Fuck.

He's heard of people who completely recover their memories after some time. He's heard about people who haven't.

What if Nico doesn't fully recover his memories?

What if he'll never remember him?

Not even the good times.....

What if they, Nico and Lewis, become nothing but just another blip in time.

That thought alone makes Lewis feel cold and hollow.

~~~~~~~~~~~*************~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Months after the interview, in which Jenson had to do lots of damage control, but people knew now that Nico had suffered from head trauma and sometimes couldn't remember things immediately.

It was a very weakened version of the truth, but it would just have to do.

But anyway... Months after that, it was that time for the F1 race in Monaco and Nico wanted to go and watch it. The first race he would watch live in a very, very long time.

Jenson would be there for Sky, so he wouldn't be alone.

It would be the first time since the accident that he's shown his face on any paddock, but he was sure he wanted to do it, despite Jenson's concerns.

He worried way too much, according to Nico. Everything would be completely fine.

And everything did go fine. Until it became a little too overwhelming.

So many people who wanted to talk to him. Jenson constantly hovering around him. That part was probably the first.

He finally excused himself to go and have a walk around the paddock. Alone.

Mark and DC had pulled Jenson into work business anyway, so that was his chance to get away from his watchful eye.

He was strolling along, looking around, waving to some people who greeted him, when he suddenly bumped into someone.

"I'm sorry, I----" The look on the man's face he just bumped into made him stop halfway his excuse. "Everything alright?"

As fast as it had appeared, the look on the man's face changed into something more neutral just as quick.

"Y- yeah," was that a small stutter? "Sorry. I didn't watch where I was going."

"Neither was I."

Both men were staring at each other, both with different expressions.

One was confused and curious. The other nervous and something else... Something Nico couldn't explain.

"So uh," the stranger started, "I should probably - - - “

"Do I know you?" Nico cut him off. "I know this might sound strange, but.... I feel like I.... Should know you."

And there it was. That look again. But now it was tainted with something else too.

Sadness. Pain. Longing.

"You did used to know me."

Nico feels the man's hand tentatively touch his arm and his eyes widen at the pulse he feels. The thrill that goes through his body, just by such a simple touch.

He was about to open his mouth and say something. Anything.

But then---

"Nico! There you are!"

Nico had never cursed Jenson's voice and presence as much as he did right now.

Then he realized that the hand on his arm was gone. So was the man who the hand belonged to.

He felt something against his leg and looked down to see a folded piece of paper falling down onto his foot. Maybe the man had dropped something.

He bend down and picked it up, shoving it in his pocket right before Jenson reached him.

"I was looking for you. Are you alright? "

Nico rolled his eyes but smiled, "Couldn't be better."

Jenson regarded him with a searching look, satisfied with what he saw, he drew Nico in against him with an arm around his waist.

There was no thrill through his body this time. Not even a little spark.

But it felt nice. Comfortable.

"Come on. Let's go watch this race."

~~~~~~~~~~**********~~~~~~~~~~~~

Late that night, Nico wakes up to go to the bathroom. When walking back to the bedroom, he feels himself being drawn to where his jacket was hanging on a chair.

His hand dipped into the pocket of said jacket and pulled out the folded paper. His hands twitching to open it. To reveal its content.

As soon as he opened it, a quiet gasp left his lips. His hands started shaking.

In his hands was a picture. A picture of a younger him, in a karting car.

But, his eyes were drawn to the other person in the picture.

It was that man from the paddock. The younger him.

They were both smiling.

Nico wiped at his eyes when his vision blurred a little.

He'd started crying without even realizing.

But what was even weirder was that when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he was smiling through the tears.

No matter who this man was or what their relationship had been.....

One thing was clear....

They'd probably shared some of the best days of their lives together.

Even if he might never remember.

#brocedes #Don't kill me #f1 fanfic #f1 rpf #my fanfiction #my writing

[eijaksa]

Have a emotional h/c ficlet feat Izzy and Fang because the s2 clips have given me an excuse to write this shit

cw: brief description of anxiety vomiting included

It’s not unusual these days for Fang to walk around the ship in the rare quiet moments of the early night. The quiet moments themselves have been unusual in the more recent times and Fang likes to savour them, the moments of peace and the illusion they create, even if deep down he knows they are just calm before a new storm.

It’s also not unusual for Fang to find himself meandering near Izzy’s quarters, which the man has become all the more protective of since… well, since. And quite often, in those quiet moments of the early night when Fang finds himself around Izzy’s quarters, walking slowly and gently so as not to make any noise, Fang hears what sounds remarkably much like the barely audible sounds of someone crying silently inside Izzy’s room. A muffled half scream here and sobbing breaths there. Often Fang considers knocking on that door and going inside to offer Izzy his comfort, but he always walks past. It’s better to mind his own business most of the time these days.

There’s something different about things this evening as Fang walks towards Izzy’s quarters one careful, quiet step at a time. For one Izzy isn’t as quiet as he usually is, and the air somehow feels heavy around him. With little hesitation and a lot of worry driving him, Fang reaches for the door and opens it.

Izzy's sitting on the edge of his bed, breathing fast and shaking, with tears running down his cheeks. His hands are pressed hard against his legs, fists tight, but he quickly moves to press the heels of his palms against his temples equally hard. He takes some deeper breaths, apparently trying to calm himself down, and when it doesn't work he slams them on his forehead with a silent half-scream. It's a concerning sight, but also one Fang has seen before. If not in a long time. Izzy has a tendency to experience feelings strong and overwhelming, sometimes becoming too much, and there's certainly been a lot happening to have overwhelming feelings about.

"Izzy, I'm coming in", Fang says. He's learned it's best to announce what he does, to give Izzy time to react, when Izzy's like this. Fang closes the door behind him and walks to Izzy's bed.

"Can I sit down next to you?"

Izzy lets out a sound that's more a whimper than a proper answer, but Fang figures it's the affirmative.

"Can I touch you, boss?" Fang asks once he's seated, raising one arm up to give a physical indication of his intentions. Izzy quickly glances at him and, without a verbal response, leans into Fang's side ever so slightly. Fang wraps his arm around Izzy's shoulders.

Izzy's still shaking, his breathing coming in with the same fast pace as when Fang entered, but the touch, the reassuring comfort of being held changes something. The tears run more freely and Izzy's properly crying, which usually indicates he's relaxed just a tiny bit.

"It's okay, boss. It's okay", Fang says. He rocks gently back and forth just a little, an automatic act more than something he decides to do. Izzy cries all the harder.

They stay like that for some time before Izzy says something, except the words get stuck on their way out and he only manages to let out a whine.

"I'm sorry, Izzy, I didn't catch that", Fang says. Izzy takes a moment, humming as he tries to find his vocal cords. In the end he manages to stammer out the words "throw up" but the rest of the sentence still refuses to leave him. It's all Fang needs, though, and he's ready to dash away to grab a bucket from wherever the closest one might be only to notice Izzy has placed one by his bed. All Fang needs to do is lean over Izzy to take it, and hand it to Izzy.

Izzy clutches the bucket like a lifeline, holding it so tight his knuckles must turn white, until he retches. Fang winces in sympathy - he's eager to comfort the crew but he's never been good with vomit - and steadies Izzy with the arm still wrapped around him. It must be all the tension and trembling, the emotion that's overtaken Izzy trying to find an exit. Izzy heaves and coughs over the bucket, trembling all the harder with the effort. Thankfully it's quickly over. Fang places the bucket back on the floor, and to his surprise Izzy catches his arm before he can move it away. Carefully, in a way Fang might describe as shy if this was anyone else but Izzy, he pulls it towards himself. Fang is more than happy to go for a proper embrace.

It takes time for Izzy to calm down any, but eventually the worst of it gives way for exhaustion. Izzy's still tight with tension and shaking but his breathing has eased and he's not crying. There are still tears in his eyes, though.

"You should lie down, boss", Fang says, nudging Izzy to move. Izzy hums, the pitch still weird but it's definitely more a hum than a whimper now, and actually complies. Fang doesn't stop to consider his actions before he lies down on Izzy's bed as well, making himself as small as he can so Izzy will fit more comfortably on the bed, and drapes his arm over Izzy. Izzy doesn't protest, in fact he only scoots closer to Fang.

It takes time, but eventually Izzy's breathing evens out and he grows less tense.

"Should I leave?" Fang asks, keeping his voice quiet and soft in case Izzy's fallen asleep. Izzy tenses and shakes his head. He relaxes again when Fang tightens his hold on him.

"You won't say fucking shit to anyone", Izzy finally says, his voice rough and quiet.

"I won't say nothing, boss."

#our flag means death #izzy hands #fang #hurt/comfort #ficlet #my stories