#i didn't mean for it to be a drabble

[llondonfog]

Wailing about “you love me so you’ll love my child” but w melleanor and silver

"—and do not let Vanrouge within twenty meters of the kitchens, is that clear, Counselor? Inform the kitchen staff that they have my exact permission to maim him on sight with the nearest sharp object. Oh, do not duck your face like a quivering kitten as if I cannot see that grimace, Counselor— that man has survived much worse and scraped through with life and limb and still persists to terrorize us all with his presence, isn't that right, my dear one?"

From within her arms, Lilia's child coos and babbles something far more intelligent than her trailing, fretful advisors back at her, and she taps a dark painted talon delicately against its plush cheek in fond agreement.

Lilia's child.

Meleanor rolls the words silently within her mouth, holds them there to taste the strange, but pleasant, flavor of their meaning.

Of all the fae in all their lands, who would have ever dared to dream that Lilia Vanrouge would take to a child like a fish to water, or a fledgling to the skies?

She can still hear him now, grumbling and griping so about the burden of children, their helplessness and neediness as unnecessarily weak creatures. In a rare form of mercy, not once did she pry— for how could she, when she knew the answer even if it was not in specifics? When fae were perishing at the hands of humankind's avaricious cruelty, how could she dare chastise him when she was so certain that Lilia's bitterness only existed towards himself?

Her hypothesis had been proven correct when her most trusted General had been present for Malleus' hatching, a softness that she had only seen once before smoothing the harsh lines of his battle-weary gaze. Perhaps she had the right of bias; it was only correct that anyone melt at the sight of her darling son, chirping and mewling miniature fonts of emerald flame.

But that softness had reappeared tenfold when Lilia had knelt before her in the privacy of her chambers where no other fae save for two were ever allowed, revealing the swaddled contents of his cloak with a desperate, fervent need for approval.

He woke for me, she remembers her oldest friend confessing in a voice choked with awe and an emotion that had nearly frightened her (her!) with its intensity. Meleanor, do you understand what this means? He is the son of our enemy, lost and forgotten by time, and he woke for me.

Oh, she had understood as perfectly then as she does now. It was for that reason alone that she had stayed her hand from where it had been readied to smite the child from Lilia's arms, to strip it from existence out of fear that it had somehow bewitched the one fae with more reason to detest humanity than all the rest.

True love was so rare in this world; it had taken her centuries to find her heart's desire. How could she wrest that from Lilia, as he kneels before her and bares his soul, staring down at the sleeping infant cradled in his arms with a delicate strength she did not know him to possess and the dazed look of a parent struck with the dazzling knowledge that the child they hold is more perfect than any creature alive on the earth?

She could not— the proof of which rests in her arms and happily teethes on strands of her gleaming hair, warm and soft and heavy in the sweet way of babes.

"And that is why we cannot allow your pathetic wretch of a father to ruin the celebration of your first blessing, isn't that right— Silver?"

[thepagemistress]

Thinking half-thoughts but like... what if, in order to pull Cas out of the Empty, Jack had to leave the vessel behind? I've seen theories on getting Cas out by leaving the grace behind (which does make more sense lore-wise) but stick with me...

They can't get the vessel back or create a new one whilst it still exists (whatever, the logistics aren't the point) and obviously Claire is the only other bloodline vessel which isn't even worth entertaining. So essentially Cas is stuck in Heaven in his true form. And in the beginning, he did try and check in on Dean but it hurt too much to see him so listless and spiralling and not being able to do anything about it so he just went cold turkey and threw himself into helping Jack rebuild Heaven.

Until he feels a barrage of emotions so strongly that it would have brought him to his knees were he to still have any. Pain, regret, sadness, acceptance, hope... a cacophony of chaos and he knows the source immediately. And he knows the reason. Dean is dying. It's barely been the blink of his many eyes and Dean's already dying. And there's nothing he can do about it.

But he could at least be there for him, even if Dean can't see him or know he's there. So he flies down to some decrepit barn to find Dean and Sam. Immediately, he is overcome with the need to FIX-IT. Why should he accept this? Why are any of them just accepting this?? If only he could...

And then an awareness shakes him to his core. The vessel is willing. The vessel has given permission. And Cas doesn't give himself time to talk himself out of it. He'll beg forgiveness later, just as long as Dean is alive.

And so he possesses him. Sam's still cradling his face and crying when Cas speaks through Dean's voice. "Pull him down."

Sam sniffs. Blinks. Frowns. It takes him longer than it usually would to connect the dots. Too long. "Sam!"

Sam starts and makes a grab for a weapon he doesn't have. "Who are you?"

"It's me," Cas says, also not thinking too straight through his own panic and the sudden onslaught of Dean's emotions battering him from the inside. "I can't heal him with the rebar still in. Hurry!"

Sam isn't hurrying. "Cas?"

"Sam, please!"

In a display of trust that Cas will be grateful for later, Sam finally bursts into action, pulling Dean from the beam, marvelling at how Cas keeps him upright. Then he begins to heal him from the inside, pouring his renewed grace into the wound and the rest of his body just because why not when he's already there?

Blinking Dean's eyes open, he finds Sam waiting, anxious. A nod from Cas has Sam sucking in a breath and launching himself forward to hug Dean. Or Cas. Or both.

It's nice. He wishes he could stay but he's done what he needed to and it was time to leave them to it. Shrugging out of Sam's grip, he offers a sad smile as he says, "I'll be waiting for you both. Just take your time about it, please."

It's clear Sam wants to argue but he needs to leave, now. And so he does.

Or...doesn't?

With a frown, he tries again. But still he remains. And Sam is now arguing but Cas can't focus, he's too busy panicking. And Dean is hammering on the little door in his mind that Cas put up to dull the unpleasant feeling of being possessed and Cas tries sending him reassuring pulses that yes, he's trying, he'll be out soon. But strangely that just increases the pounding which take on an edge of desperation until Cas has no choice but to open the door and-

"DON'T YOU FUCKING LEAVE ME AGAIN."

Everything stops. The pounding in his head, the tether on his grace, the desire to flee. The only thing that remains is an overwhelming sense of anticipation. And Sam still rambling about something that is probably very heartfelt and that Cas absolutely could not give a shit about right now.

To test a theory, Cas tries again to exit the vessel, only to have what he now realises is Dean's soul clamp down on his grace, keeping it rooted, nestled inside him.

"You ain't going anywhere, sunshine," comes Dean's shaky voice from inside his head. "We got some shit to talk about, you and me."

And so talk they do. And when Cas says that he's without a vessel and that's why he hasn't been by, Dean tells him that now he does. Just like that. As if he hasn't spent the entire time Cas has known him trying to avoid being a meat suit for an angel. But Cas can hear the eye roll as Dean says that Cas has been the exception to that rule for awhile. He made his peace with that fact years ago. Which explained the open permission he seemed to have.

"So, listen. We'll try to figure out how to get your body back. But, if we can't? Don't be using that as an excuse to not visit, yeah?"

If Cas had the choice, he'd never leave.

A flash of warmth roll through him, reminding Cas that he's not alone with his thoughts right now.

"Well. That'd be OK with me, too."

Cas smiles with Dean's lips. But that's OK because Dean's smiling too.

"...Have you listened to anything I just said?" Sam asks.

[jadewritesficshere]

Thinking about Eddie Munson who was complaining to the rest of the band about his shoulders and neck hurting post show. One of them convinces him to go for a massage.

Eddie shows up day of and is told to strip to level of comfort and get under the sheets laying on his back, his masseuse will knock before coming in. Eddie has not an ounce of care or shame, strips completely naked. Scars and tattoos on full display. He climbs between the sheets and waits. After knocking and hearing a "come in", his masseuse enters and-

The most handsome man he's ever seen walks in. A bit of stubble on his defined jaw, soft pale lips Eddie wants to kiss, big brown eyes Eddie wants to get lost in, slutty little waist and an ass Eddie could-

He introduces himself as Steve. Verifies where Eddie had said his tension was on the form he hastily filled out. Then it starts.

And maybe, maybe, Eddie is a bit touch starved. He could have anyone he wants, but they don't want him just his fame. Pushes them all away. Only gets close to his band, but they all are busy and have their own people outside of work.

And Steve is just touching him. Rubbing smooth circles into his temple, down his cheekbones towards his jaw. Pressing on parts of Eddie's face he didn't even realize were tense. It's relaxing.

And Eddie regrets not leaving at least his boxers on to help hide that he's becoming hard. Kind of embarrassing, which makes his dick harder- which, that's a lot to unpack right now-

"Hey, relax man," Steve says, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. Eddie can see Steve's eyes dart towards the obvious situation," It's natural. Happens to the best of us." "Does it happen to you?" Eddie blurts out. Eddie wants to shove his face in one of these soft plush pillows and scream, but Steve just snorts a laugh and shakes his head at him. Doesn't even respond as he continues the massage.

Eddie tries to hold back his groans as Steve turns his head to the side and rubs his neck into his shoulders. He can feel the tension leave his body slowly. Feel the knots in his muscles release.

Eddie can't, however, hold back the noise he makes when Steve grabs a hold of his hair and tugs it. Eddie's eyes pop open and he stares into Steve's face, who has started blushing. Steve just clears his throat and let's Eddie's hair go before continuing the massage.

[starrylevi]

Levi doesn’t get how you find The Sims entertaining.

 “It’s a virtual dollhouse.” He tells you. “That’s what so great about it!” You retort. “Whatever floats your boat…” He mutters to himself. He says this but he makes sure you have all the sims 4 packs (there are A LOT of them). And when one is coming out, He’ll listen to you passionately explain the premise of the pack. “When it comes out, just let me know.” He’ll give you his credit card info so you can charge it as he doesn’t want you to spend any of your money.

“I made us in the Sims!” You excitedly sit in Levi’s lap with your laptop in hand.

“Hm?” Levi places his chin on the crook of your neck as his hands gently graze the sides of your thighs.

“The Sims!” You exclaim again. “Look, there’s you and there’s me…” Your finger points out each of your sims on the screen. “Oh, and we have a child together!” Levi’s eyes follow your finger as you point at the child sim. “Her name is Kuchel.”

You feel Levi tense up behind you for a moment. “Wait…what’s her name?”

��Kuchel.” You repeat, quieter this time. “Sorry, I can change her name if you don’t feel comfortable with it.” You add quickly.

Levi’s expression softens; he stays silent for a moment before speaking again. “...Can you make her?” He asks you quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Your mom?” You turn slightly so you can see his face.

He nods to confirm.

 “Of course, I'll do my best.” You tell him with a soft smile.

You ask Levi to describe her to you, his eyes filled with fondness as he recalls her features and her personality. You spend hours on the Kuchel sim, wanting her to look and be as accurate as possible.

After a few days, you show Levi the finished product in the game as you have the Kuchel sim interact with the Levi sim. You look at Levi for a brief moment while the Sims are speaking to each other. The expression on his face is hard to read. It’s a mix of pleasant surprise, awe, and sadness.

“Is it okay, is there anything I should change?” You ask him, worried you didn’t capture her likeness as you watch him study her.

He silently shakes his head. “No…she’s perfect.” 

You tell Levi he’s more than welcome to play whenever he wants. You’re surprised when he does take you up on that offer. He picks up on the mechanics quickly and soon he has the whole family (Your sim, Levi’s sim, your daughter, and Kuchel) traveling all over the world, going on adventures, and trying new things together. At one point you suggest the Levi sim and the Kuchel sim spend some time alone together and Levi does just that, taking them to coffee and tea shops, having them take walks in the park, and going to the library. As you and Levi continue to play together, you learn more about Kuchel as some of the actions in the game trigger different memories of his mother.

Levi doesn’t say it but he’s thankful for this silly little game you introduced him to because he can now have a cup of tea with his mother, even if it’s only pretend.

[ranx0]

Steve's liked cars since before he knew. He's just always liked them. He stared at the fancy ones people from across town drove, and he liked to admire the one his dad kept the the garage.

Ten years ago Steve Randle met Sodapop Curtis. Sodapop was six going on seven, and Steve was seven. The former was a loud outspoken kid with an average home life. Two loving parents and two brothers to keep him company. The latter wasn't so lucky, his parents were going through an ugly divorce and they didn't bother to make sure he was okay during any of it.

Steve, like any other little boy, craved attention. He knew Sodapop got attention, he knew it almost as soon as he became friends with the boy. He could tell from his jokes, his smile, the way he talked like everyone was listening, and his confidence that he was a boy everyone always noticed. Maybe that's why Steve stuck by him, copying his confident nature in a way that came off as cocky. Copying his loud volume in a way that made him annoying to most.

Soda figured that Steve liked cars one day a few months after they had just met. Steve always had a small toy car from home stuffed in his backpack hidden away from his parents in case they decided he was in trouble for the day. He had it out during recess, which immediately caught Soda's eyes. It was old and beaten up, but he could tell it used to be a model of those fancy bright red cars that looked like they had a mustache in the front.

Soda plopped down next to the boy, watching him zoom the car back and forth on the grass, opening and shutting the door then walking his hands with his fingers away from the car. Soda was amazed, the car looked fancy. Much more than any toys that Soda had, his were all one solid piece of plastic but Steve's- Steve's had functioning doors, fancy seats, and if you had something small enough you could probably stick it in one of the seats.

But its paint was chipped, there were a few dents in it and one of the car doors wouldn't close correctly. He learned that after observing Steve try and shut it a few times after playing with it for a while. The car was well-loved and had clearly been through a lot.

"That's a cool car." Soda stated, then Steve looked at him.

"It's my only one." The little boy mumbled, tightening his grip on it. Soda didn't understand why, he wasn't going to take it away from him or anything.

"What is it?" The blonde asked with a genuine curiosity that Steve couldn't help but fumble at. He picked the car up from off the ground and sat crisscrossed on the grass. Soda waited patiently for his response.

"It's, uhm, a Ford Convertible," Steve played with the car in his hands, then looked up at Soda. "You could see some around town if you look hard enough."

"I think I have," Soda replied quickly, "They look real fancy."

Soda looked at Steve in awkward silence for a few more moments, and then Steve awkwardly held the car out for Soda to take. "Here," He mumbled, looking away from Soda as he gave him the toy. "You can play with it if you want."

Soda beamed, grabbing the car quickly and zooming it around the floor. Steve's hand almost followed after the car when Soda took it harshly, but he held it back when he saw the excited look on his face.

"Just be careful with it," Steve grumbled as he watched.

That day Soda forgot to give it back, it had just slipped his mind. Recess ended abruptly and everyone rushed inside to continue the school day.

When Steve got home that day he placed his bag down in his room, and later when his parents started fighting he retreated back to busy himself with his prized possession. He was scrounging through his bag trying to find it, and when he couldn't he almost started to cry.

He must have been making too much noise because then it alerted his dad. He doesn't know what necessarily ticked him off, the mess he made while throwing around everything in his bag or the crying from Steve. But his father gave him something reasonable to cry about after he found him.

The next day in school Steve's hands were balled up into fists, trying to distract himself from crying over something stupid again as he tried to confront his new friend. He'd told Soda how he must've accidentally taken the car home with him, and the other boy was extremely apologetic.

Despite how apologetic he was though, he didn't get that car back for a while. Soda kept forgetting. Steve would ask at least once a week, and Soda would always look so genuinely crushed every time he was reminded.

When he finally got the car back it was around December. He'd given the car to him in October.

Soda invited Steve to his house for the first time and was excited to introduce Steve as his best friend. Soda had claimed that if he'd just waited for his parents instead of getting on the bus like he usually did his parents would be happy to have him over.

They waited for Soda's parents outside the school, and when they pulled up they almost expected the little boy standing next to Sodapop. They introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, and they seemed like sweet people. They had the same genuine smile as Soda did, and they always spoke gently. The complete opposite of his own.

“So, Steve, you and Soda just met this year, right?” His mother asked, and Steve nodded in response. He regrettably wasn’t paying much attention to the questions, just nodding along to whatever his parents had said.

He was focusing on the car that they had, what condition it was in, and how much it would be worth. He was way off, but that was only because he was seven and didn’t understand the concept of capitalism much. It was some type of Ford, but he personally thought his model was better.

When they pulled up in front of the house he noticed some stark contrasts from his own, although the house looked poor enough it had a well-taken-care lawn, its front door was open and its screen door was closed, and it had a nice paint job.

When he entered the house it had this warm aura to it, comforting and happy.

"Soda, why don't you go get Steve that surprise you had for him?" His mother urged, and then Soda bounced up and down excitedly. The younger boy ran off into a room, slamming the door. Steve flinched slightly at the loud noise, then turned to look at Mrs. Curtis quizzically.

He didn't get a response before Soda came barreling in holding something in each of his hands. He held them out to Steve, smiling at him excitedly. There he was holding Steve's old busted-up red Model Ford Convertible and a second one that Steve recognized as a dark blue Model 1947 Cadillac.

Steve could almost cry.

"They're both for you! I told Mama about how I kept forgettin' your car and felt real bad," He said shyly as Steve took the cars from his hands, "So she helped me get another as an apology!"

Steve looked up at Mrs. Curtis, he wasn't stupid, and he knew Soda couldn't buy one himself. Obviously, Mrs. Curtis had done this. He tried to hold back tears and mouthed a quick thank you.

So yeah, you could say Steve Randle liked cars. He liked them a lot, actually.

[elluqien710]

day 17: tropical 🍍

“Tropical fruit punch?”

“That’s right,” Káno winked cheerfully. Currently, Nelyo noticed, he was in his Theater era. “It’s Ambarussar’s 50th begetting day soon! They adore Yavanna's fruit punch.”

Nelyo nodded. “Quite aware of that, but did you really find the need to drag us to the market to buy the juice ourselves? You could’ve called someone else to—”

“And where’s the fun in that?” Káno tossed his dark hair with dramatic flair. “Besides, Nelyo, you’ve been absurdly busy recently. It’s good for you to relax, get some fresh air!”

Nelyo smiled fondly as Káno eagerly led him down the streets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Tropical fruit punch?”

“That’s right,” Maglor replied, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He ruffled Elrond and Elros’s hair. “Their 10th begetting day is soon! They want some.”

Elrond tugged on Maedhros’s cloak. “Please, Atto? We want something sweet…”

Maedhros leaned back on his chair. “We’re on rations. Where in Amon-Ereb do you think we’ll get fruit punch?”

Maglor crossed his arms. “You’re the leader of the entire Fëanorian camp! Certainly you could get some from somebody.”

Maedhros glanced at the twins, who were looking at him with oh-so-adorable faces that melted his heart.

He succumbed. “Of course.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

<- day 16: ballad 🎼 | day 18: leaves 🍁 ->

all drabbles

[owl-bones]

I mean, in defense of people who are hesitant about trusting fae dream... he did turn someone into an exotic pet before.

that didn't actually happen, that was just a drabble i developed and people asked for elaboration on sldfjlsfjs. it's technically a non-canon event, it's just on the blog and tagged and all that because it's still a (hypothetical) part of the story and there's some characterisation stuff in there. but the MC wasn't his pet, they were just a bird for the deal to work. he still treated them like a member of his court.

and i get where people are coming from, but if you're hesitant about trusting Dream you should extend that hesitancy to all the fae. especially Nightmare. between the two of them Nightmare is far more likely to trick you into a deal that you don't like, or that causes you to lose something of importance. it's just that nobody's asked about anything like that, so all they've seen is Dream being the poster-child for fae shenanigans lskdfjlsdsljfkd

like. Blue is the 'nicest' fae out of all of them when it comes to avoiding deals and giving humans leeway and helping them out, but that doesn't make Dream the worst (that'd be Killer)

tricks and wordplay are a major part of fae stories, and to ignore them completely to sanitise the characters and make them more approachable is disingenuous. Dream's a nice, friendly guy, yes, but he's still a fae and will trick you. Nightmare is cold and aloof but fair, and he will also trick you. Dream's not the bad guy, there is no bad guy, that is just their nature ദ്ദി ꒦ິ꒳꒦ິ )✧

[in-my-loki-feels]

2024 Writing Roundup

Thank you for tagging me @blackbirdofasgard and @loki-is-my-kink-awakening! <3 This got a little long so I'm not going to tag anyone at the end, but feel free to join in if you see this!

Lokius: 16 fics, 7 drabble-ish stories, 181,714 words (with an additional 24,287 words posted to tumblr)

February

Like You Mean It - M, Loki/Mobius, Prezdoki AU (technically)

Beg Me For It - E, President Loki/Don, Prezdoki AU

The beginning of the Bad Things 'verse, and my descent into rare pair madness. 😂

March

No Time For Love, Dr. Bones - T, President Loki/Dr. Indianapolis Bones

April

Let Me See You - E, President Loki/Don, Prezdoki AU

May

Sweeten the Pot - T, Loki/Mobius

June

Out in the Open - E, President Loki/Don, Prezdoki AU

July

My Mind's Aflame - E, Loki/Mobius/President Loki

August

Where You Belong - E, President Loki/Don, Prezdoki AU

Just Like Runaway Horses - E, Loki/Mobius, Cowboy AU

October

Intoxicated, Calculated - E, Loki/Mobius

A Desperate Play for Control - E, Loki/Mobius, Avengers AU

November

Love in Every Cup - G, Loki/Mobius

A Break in the Routine - E, Loki/Mobius

More Than Your Broken Pieces - M, Loki/Mobius, Avengers Loki x Mr. Tesseract

December

In A Fever 'Til the End - E, Loki/Mobius, Cowboy AU

I'll Be Anything You Need - E, President Loki/Don, Prezdoki AU

Drabble-ish writing (written for Wanksgiving and Wanksmas)

More

Lovely

Perfect

Convincing

Well-Behaved

The Mistake

Lace

Honorable mentions to other fandoms under the read more!

Sharperton (Benedict Bridgerton/Thomas Sharpe)

Thank you @silentxsymphony for being the catalyst to writing this ship! I've had so much fun discussing these two with you. 💖

Society's Expectations

Shall We Dance?

There are a few more tidbits with them in the Sharperton tag, including the ask prompt that started it all!

Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian, MDZS

How to Shred Trails (and win hearts)

so much that it hurts

Frosthawk (Loki/Clint Barton)

Left Wanting

WHEW! That's a lot of writing. The total for all fandoms was 197,764 words.

I feel incredibly lucky to have found the Loki fandom when I did because all this writing was helping me cope with a shit year. I hope circumstances improve in 2025, but I also hope I can keep writing so I can share the ideas currently crowded in my brain. 😊💚🧡

[reddamselette]

He refused to lose him. He spent so long being alone. Nathaniel didn’t want to be alone anymore. “Come home,” he pleaded for the last time. It was safe, no one else in the apartment but then, locked away in their own little world until the time came to call them back into civilization. Jean turned his face in Nathaniel’s palm and left a featherlight kiss before opening his eyes. He was sure he would be rejected again, he was unable to tell what Jean was thinking, but it surprised him when that wasn’t the case. “Take me home, Nathaniel.”

the human body is mostly water (and you're human to me)

no i did not repost this what r u talking about

[muzzlemouths]

Were the DMD boys ever witnesses to a baby's firsts? Like first words or first steps?

Superstar Shopping Center, circa 1977

“Did you need help with that?”

Sun moseys up to a mother who looks like she’s got her hands full – literally. Four shopping bags balanced on one arm and a baby in the other. A second child — five or six, if he had to guess — clings to the tail of her mother’s jacket in lieu of a free hand, dressed in her Sunday Best. She ducks behind her mother’s arm as Sun nears and addresses him with a look tied between awe and apprehension.

Contrarily, her mother regards Sun with nothing but relief, handing over all but one of her bags the moment his hands extend to take them. “Well, thank you!” She reorients the remaining bag to sit at her elbow so the little girl at her side has a proper handhold and gently scolds her for continuing to hide.

“It’s quite alright,” Sun assures her with a kind smile. He crouches to be more at eye-level with the child and offers her a little wave, taking no offense to the way she peeks only slightly out from behind her mother. “That’s a very pretty dress,” he says. It’s a Carter's collared plaid, Christmas-time red, with a white dog-eared collar and rabbit embroidery. Perfectly suited for the season. “Are you headed somewhere special?”

“Just down to Shutterbug,” the mother laughs, answering Sun’s question when her daughter doesn’t budge. “I know it’s still early in the season, but I have an endless list of things to get around to before the month’s end, so we’re just going to get our photos done now, and the family will just receive their cards a little early, this year.”

“Oh, certainly,” he nods sagely, as if he’s even once sent a Christmas card himself, “better to get it over and done with before everyone and their mother realizes they’ve forgotten to sign and seal their envelopes!”

“Exactly!” She laughs again. “I figure, well, I might as well get some gift shopping done since I’m already here, but–”

Right on cue, the infant in her arms begins to wail his poor little head off, and she grimaces.

“Finding it hard to get anything done with your hands full?” Sun asks, waiting for her nod before continuing. “Well, that’s nothing I can’t fix! I could carry your other bags for you, or–���

“Could you babysit?”

He straightens with a jolt, nearly dropping the bags he already carried in the process. “Oh! Well, um, company policy doesn’t exactly allow me to–”

“It would just be for a few minutes. An hour, at most.” She gives him a pleading look. “You’re coded with childcare protocols, aren’t you?”

“I–” Sun scrambles for an answer. “My training extends to some childcare etiquette, but–”

“Perfect!” She lofts the infant into his arms like he is nothing more than a small sack of potatoes. “This is George. He’s nine months old as of last week, was just changed, and ate an hour ago, so he should be an angel for you.”

“W-What about his shoes?” He tucks the child against his shoulder and gestures worriedly towards his itty little toes, clothed in nothing but the navy blue footie he wears.

“Oh, don’t be silly, he’s still too young!” The woman insists, “George has only just learned how to crawl, I doubt he’ll be walking any time soon. You have nothing to worry about!”

“But–”

“I’ll come find you in an hour when I’m all finished up. Thank you again!”

The mother turns on her heel like she’s being chased out by fire, leaving Sun there in the center of the mall aisle, still as a statue and stunned into silence.

There was a kernel of truth to his words. Both he and Moon had been programmed with the know-how in terms of child rearing basics, and in fact it was the very first frame of coding that he recalls having. For what purpose, he isn’t sure. It has lied dormant beneath layers of more relevant protocols for years and only ever makes an appearance when he’s interacting with the few children the mall sees from time to time. Even still, it is nothing in the way of proper training for how to care for an infant so small, and for so long.

Needless to say, he was panicking.

The first thing he does after quieting the infant’s cries is find another employee and hand off the bags, instructing them to be brought to Shutterbug and kept behind the desk for the time being.

With his hands freed he can focus all of his attention on the child who, for what it’s worth, has been a perfect angel in the short time since he was haphazardly carted into Sun’s arms. Quiet as a church mouse after that first little outburst, and just as cute, too, the little bundle of joy looking up at him with big brown eyes full of wonder.

Sun returns his gaze with a long sigh. “Now then, what are we going to do with you?”

The protocols that once were dormant now rose to the surface and screamed at him to engage the child in “stimulating activities“, whatever that meant. Instructions for playtime involved everything from games like peekaboo and patty-cake to more developmental activities, such as playing music, coloring, or toying with building blocks. Sun doubted that Bee Gees’ hit single “Stayin’ Alive” was anything in the way of educational for the tiny tot as it played over the speakers, and — to the best of his knowledge — he can’t recall ever having access to building blocks or coloring books. That left nothing but the traditional baby games, tried and true, and easy enough!

He borrows a small blanket from a store nearby and finds a cozy spot on the floor, tucked safely between two plant boxes, to set him down. Sun finds that playing these games comes almost naturally to him — but that’s a given, isn’t it? He follows the instruction manual in his code to the letter, pride and joy overwhelming his stint of uncertainty each time he comes out from hiding behind his hands to the sound of shrill laughter, every “Peek-a-boo!” earning him a motley of giggles and a baby-toothed smile.

Distraction arrives in the form of an employee struggling to carry a stack of boxes into the store behind him. He’s on his feet and across the room in an instant as one protocol briefly overrides the other, and it’s only for a moment — just a moment — but when he turns around again it is to the sight of an empty blanket.

His charge has gone missing.

Panic overwhelms every one of his sensors, rushing along his circuits like adrenaline through veins gripping him with a fear so potent it threatens to shut down his system right then and there.

No, think! His mother said he had only just learned to crawl, which meant little George couldn’t have gone far. Unless the infant hadn’t gone anywhere by himself at all, and rather, someone had come along and–

Sun shut down that train of thought the moment it struck him. He would never forgive himself if something so terrible happened on his watch, saying nothing of what management would do to him if a child was abducted right from under his nose.

He decides the best course of action right now is to follow the same protocol he would use for any other “lost” child. Yes, lost, that’s all they were. It’s so easy to get lost in a mall as large as this one. Sun comforts himself with the knowledge that he has never let a lost child go unfound before. His success rate is a perfect 100%, and he intends to keep it that way.

First, he scans the security cameras for any sight of the child. He is sure to look in every nook and cranny, and he deflates with growing dread when that little navy footie doesn’t appear anywhere on the screens. His voice cuts through the employee radio a moment later and describes the child with every possible detail he can think of, asking that any sighting of the little straggler be reported to him immediately. He hopes against every star in the sky that the mother doesn’t happen to overhear from an employee nearby.

Lastly, he heads out in search of help.

Moon is meant to be working on the upper floor today, helping Sun handle the usual holiday rush, and his lack of response to the radio call is concerning. Not too concerning, though, given that Sun finds him right where he’d been expecting to.

That is, sprawled atop the lockers in the employee break room, one arm dangling over the side, the other resting casually over his waist, and a VOGUE magazine draped over his face.

‘Lazy’ doesn’t even scratch the surface of the words Sun wants to use. They’ve talked about this, the bad habit having put Moon in trouble a number of times already, but that’s an argument for another day.

There’s no time to mince words right now, and so he doesn’t. Instead, Sun stalks across the room and slams his fist against the lockers beneath his sleeping coworker, who sits upright with such force that his head makes contact with the ceiling and crashes through like a train into glass.

It might have been funny if Sun wasn’t as whipped up into a panic as he is, but as it stands he can hardly even keep from raising his voice when he addresses Moon with a scowl. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Sun hisses, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. “I take it you didn’t hear my radio call?”

Moon serves him with a glower of his own, snarling deep within his voicebox as he runs his hand over the glassy side of his faceplate to ensure that it’s still intact. He has the decency to look a little guilty, if only for a moment, cerulean blue eyes lowering to the radio attached at his hip that is visibly turned to OFF.

“Of course not,” Sun tuts.

Griping, Moon dusts the ceiling powder from his shoulders. “What could be so important that you had to–”

“I lost a baby.”

The words render him speechless, a long, uncomfortable silence taking up the space between them for all of a minute before Moon blurts out, “Sun, you don’t have a baby.”

“That’s because I lost him!” Sun shrills, beginning to pace. “I was helping a mother with her bags, and she asked me to babysit, a-and I know we aren’t technically allowed to, but– but it all just happened so fast!” His arms flailed for emphasis. “She said he wasn’t even walking yet, I thought it’d be easy! Everything was going so well, too, we were playing a game of peek-a-boo and then – then someone needed help. I only had my back turned for a minute, Moon. Maybe even less! But then I turned around, and…”

“You lost a baby,” he mutters to himself. Moon runs both hands over his face, sighing into his palms. “You lost a baby,” he repeats. “How do you lose an entire child?”

“I don’t know!” Sun answers, voice cracking with guilt. “Will you help me find them?”

“Obviously.” Moon hops down from the lockers (pointedly ignoring the massive hole in the ceiling – he’d come up with an excuse to tell management later) and is already crossing the room when he speaks again. “Management will take it out on both of us if they find out, so you need to get a grip. Your face looks like you just watched someone plummet to their death, for fucks’s sake.” He pauses at the door. “Did you get a scan of their face?”

“O-Of course!”

“Good. Transfer the image to me along with any other information that might be helpful. I’ll search the exits, you take the first story department stores.”

“What about the second floor?”

He fits him with a quizzical expression, going as far as to form an eyebrow with the stars on his faceplate screen and arch it pointedly. “You said this kid wasn’t walking yet,” Moon reminds him. “If someone ‘napped the little guy, they aren’t going to stick around, much less be caught shopping. They’ll head for the exits, first.”

“I guess that’s true…”

“And if you just coincidentally happened to have been babysitting the world’s fastest crawler, they would still be stuck on the first floor,” he continues, “which is why we’re checking there first.”

“Right. Right. You’re right.” Sun’s nod is shaky at best. His hands wring together with a tension that threatens to pop the joints out of place with each anxious tug.

Moon sighs and crosses the room again to place a hand on Sun’s shoulder. “We’ll find him,” he comforts, giving the shoulder a gentle squeeze, “but we need to go now. You won’t fix anything by standing here worrying.”

“Right,” he repeats, working to smother his nerves for the sake of focusing on the task at hand. “You check the exits, I’ll check the department stores. We’ll meet up at the fountain in thirty minutes if neither of us find anything?”

“Ten minutes,” Moon asserts. He wastes no further time, leaving Sun with only that and a firm nod before pacing out of the room.

Sun hopes they aren’t already too late.

-

Their search yields nothing but more disappointment. Ten painfully long minutes of searching that ends with them meeting at the fountain equally empty handed and with no further leads.

“We’re too late,” wails Sun, already catastrophizing. “How am I going to explain this to their mother? She’ll never forgive me, I’ll never forgive me–” His fingers hook around the rays beside his chin, the thin metal groaning beneath the force and threatening to snap right then and there, “–and management — stars, Moon, we’re going to be dismantled over this!”

“Lower your voice!” Moon snaps. He looks around, ensuring that that their crime — Sun’s crime — hasn’t been overheard. Luckily, it appears the fountain has drowned out their conversation sufficiently. “You need to calm down,” he continues. “I’m sure they’re somewhere around here.”

“We’ve checked everywhere!” His left ray bends under the pressure, molding to the shape of his fingers, slowly but surely. “I should have never let this happen. What was I thinking, turning my back on them? Now they’re all alone, o-or hurt, somewhere, or–”

“Hey, hey.” Moon takes him by the wrist, careful yet firm as he pries Sun’s fingers away from his mangled ray then holds his hand at a distance, so he can’t hurt himself further. “You made a mistake,” he agrees, “but it’s not fair to hold all of that blame yourself. You have no frame of reference for this sort of thing, we aren’t meant to be taking care of children in the first place.”

“I should have known better!” Sun insists. “How can I be expected to run a daycare if I can’t even look after one kid?”

Moon freezes, his optics flickering in a blink. “We–” slowly, he releases Sun’s wrist, “–we aren’t a daycare, Sun. We’re a mall. Are…are you feeling okay?”

“I…” Alarms and notices flood his screen, blocking Moon from view. Corroded files long since forgotten behind firewalls and newly instated protocols. He looks for answers in their overwhelming code and finds nothing but more questions; a lingering sense of awareness always just out of his reach. Then they’re gone, swept away all at once as his system tidies itself up, and he can think clearly again. “We’re in a mall,” he echoes, nodding to himself, “we run a mall. We’re mascots, not – not–” He faces Moon with a calmer disposition, forcing a smile, “I’m alright, now.”

“I always preferred the term Icon,” says Moon, “’mascot’ makes us sound like those people in animal suits waving around signs outside of businesses.” He laughs, and Sun laughs, too, but it’s strained. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He sighs with the last crumb of uncertainty. “I’m fine, just…confused, I guess. I think the anxiety is getting to me.” When he straightens again it’s with newfound gusto, a determination to make things right. “None of our employees have reported seeing anyone carting off with a baby that fits George’s description, so he must still be here. Do you want to try the second floor after all?”

“I guess it’s worth a shot,” says Moon. He takes another look around, eyes scanning the area for any possible lead, until his star-studded eyebrow arches downward. “You said he was wearing a blue footie?”

“Navy blue,” Sun nods his confirmation, “with a little white pocket on the front.”

“Like that?”

He follows Moon’s point all the way to the escalator, where good ol’ George is sat, halfway up to the second story, already, suckling at his thumb like this is any other Tuesday.

“That’s–” Sun feels like he’s going to scream, “that’s him!”

“Huh. Baby on an escalator,” he mutters inquisitively. “Never seen that before.”

“Moon!”

Not wanting to risk any more dillydallying, Sun rushes past him and beelines through the crowd, anxiety pulsing through him tenfold as he gets caught up in a group of customers gathered on the escalator themselves.

Moon takes an alternative route, opting to skip the escalator steps all together. Instead he leaps directly onto the handrail, steady and practiced, and carefully avoids his customer’s fingers as he races upward.

Sun meets him at the top an excruciating few seconds after and feels his composure slip further upon seeing him empty handed. “Where–?”

“I don’t know,” Moon interrupts, looking just as confused. “He was already gone when I got up here.”

“Seriously?” He braces both palms across his arms, hugging himself tightly so he doesn’t just rip out his rays all together. “He’s a baby, for Pete’s sake. How far could he have gone? How does this keep happening?”

“There!” Moon points a little ways off, where little George — somehow, someway — is spotted riding a runaway janitor’s cart, its wheels spiraling uncontrollably forward and headed straight for the wall.

“Stop that cart!” Shrieks Sun, already halfway across the room and hot on the cart’s tail.

The crowd is thick, clusters of customers all aiming to get their holiday shopping in before the real chaos begins, and it makes the already out of hand situation that much harder.

Sun hears the crash before he sees it, and feels his battery operated heart sink. The sight he’s met with upon finally reaching the end of the balcony is disastrous at best. The cart rests in a broken mess on the floor, having evidently bounced into a pair of trash cans rather than collide with the wall. One of said cans has toppled onto its side from the impact, and the trail of garbage leading out of it paints a perplexing picture.

Moon catches up with him a minute later, fans whirring like he’s out of breath. “Is he–”

“Gone,” Sun answers, aghast. He points to the breadcrumbs (literally) that trail out of the toppled can. “I think he fell into the garbage.”

“Well, that’s better than the wall,” hums Moon. “Maybe it cushioned his fall? And then the trashcan fell over…” he trails off.

“And he just…crawled out?” Sun finishes the thought, then raises his chin. The two share a dumbfounded expression.

“Sun, what kind of mutant child did you agree to babysit?”

“Don’t be rude!” He chastises. “George is just…special.”

“Yeah, specially designed to outwit us. They should have called him Curious George.” His eye follows the garbage trail until it peters out a few feet down. “Where do you suppose he went now?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Sun groans. “Should we split up?”

“Good idea. You take the east wing, I’ll go west. Reconvene in thirty minutes?”

“Ten,”‌ corrects Sun, grimacing at the deja vu. “His mother promised an hour, and it’s already been over half of that. If we can’t find him in ten minutes, then we - we–”

“We are going to find him,” Moon assures, bolstering Sun’s confidence as best as he can. “We just need to focus, alright? No more running around like chickens with our heads cut off.”

Sun nods his agreement. “Right, okay. You’re right. I won’t let a baby run me in circles around my own mall.” His frazzled expressions calms, at that, and he smiles. “Just a nine-month infant who crawls a little faster than normal, that’s all he is. Easy peasy!”

-

What happens next is neither easy nor peasy. In fact, calling it ‘running circles’ is an understatement. In the next ten minutes alone, little George sends both of them out on nothing short of a wild goose chase, appearing in nigh impossible positions each and every time and always just out their grasp.

Sun is the first to find him. Tucked into the one corner of a store that the cameras don’t reach, donning a pair of sunglasses of all things (upside-down, mind you), and playing with a silicone whisk from the kitchenware section. Sun is only a short distance away when a customer taps him on the shoulder and asks where they can find the bathroom. Of course, the little tot is already gone when he turns back around.

A few meters down, Moon discovers some discarded sunglasses on the floor. He spots a familiar pair of white padded feet a moment later and finds George climbing the side of an information kiosk. The employee inside is busy with a customer and doesn’t even notice the little rascal scaling the grounded kiosk sign like he was born to climb Everest. They notice Moon, though, and are all too eager to introduce one of the mall’s very own mascots to the customer who is, apparently, visiting for the very first time. It’s all Moon can do just to act polite in front of the woman as his guest-orientation protocols take over, keeping him paralyzed there even as the infant merrily drops from the sign and disappears from his sight.

Five minutes later Sun hears a shrill of laughter and turns around a corner to see George playing in the plant trough like it’s a sandbox, his navy footie all but smothered in dirt. An internal scream rips silently through his system as he grapples with the knowledge that he’s now going to get an earful even if he does successfully get his hands on the kid.

True to character, George is nowhere to be found when Sun winds up in front of the planter. He calms his nerves and protocols alike by fixing the poor flowers back into their proper position from where they had been carelessly plucked out and thrown aside. He knows there’s no saving a few of them, and he’ll need to reorder more seeds to make up for it, but that’s a headache for another day.

The current source of his vexation appears to have shown some mercy, at least. Sun finds a trail of muddy footprints leading out of the trough and down the aisle. An employee glances up from their storefront desk upon seeing him and points to the right, towards the candy store, knowing exactly what he was looking for, already. For the life of him, Sun cannot understand why they — or anyone else for that matter — hasn’t thought to stop the runaway infant. Apparently, a nine month old crawling around without parental supervision is nothing to bat an eye at to anyone in the mall’s entire vicinity.

Moon is passing by Waning Lights theater when he hears a small commotion inside. On a hunch he peeks in, expecting nothing in particular, and instead sees two enormous baby hands covering the screen. That is, two very small baby hands waving in front of the projector.

He’s up the steps in a matter of seconds, mechanics racing with the adrenaline of having finally caught the little devil, only — of course — the little hands have already disappeared, and the seat is empty, leaving only a confused employee where he once was. “You’re joking…” Moon whispers, exhausted. An already irritated customer shushes him from somewhere downstage. Distantly, he hears the telltale sound of infant babbling and begrudgingly follows it out of the theater again.

He bursts through the door and right into Sun, colliding with a loud clatter of metal and recoiling, each holding their heads respectively and groaning in perfect unison.

“Did you find him?” Sun asks around a wince.

“Technically yes, but–”

“He got away from you too?”

Moon nods. “What is it with this kid?”

“I don’t know, but we need to figure out a different plan soon. We’re already over our ten minutes.” He looks around once more for good measure, knowing the child couldn’t have gone too far, already, if they had both just spotted him a moment ago.

That’s when he sees it. Little George, nine months old, walking down the balcony aisle. Rather, the little tike is running like he’s off to the races.

“Well, that explains why he’s been able to get everywhere so fast,” says Moon, following Sun’s gaze. “I thought you said he was only starting to crawl?”

“He’s, um, a fast learner?” Sun answers sheepishly. He watches George go for all of one long, lovestruck moment — feeling like a proud parent himself — before the swell of pride in his chest shatters to make way for circuit frying terror.

See, little George has shown himself to be quite the impressive little acrobat. He can walk, he can run, he can climb, and at that very moment he is making quick work of closing the distance between himself and a stack of boxes pressed up against the balcony railing.

The only thing awaiting him on the other side is a long, long fall.

Sun darts forward without a word, but Moon is faster, weaving through the crowd with a nimble speed that he cannot compete with. “We aren’t going to make it,” Sun gasps, announcing it to himself, mostly, as horror grips him throughout. Even if they reach the railing on time, George is already at the top of the stack, raising himself onto unsteady feet and peering out into the great beyond. He’ll be over the edge before they can stop him, and they won’t make it to the first floor on time to catch him there.

But then Sun hears it; the whir of a wire, quick and sturdy as it races through its ceiling track to Moon’s beck and call. He watches its metal hook begin to lower from a few paces away, just as the infant topples up and over, and his body seizes with fear as Moon leaps over the railing after him.

He hears a click, the wire latching out of sight, going taut. Sun holds his breath until the sound of giggling follows. Peering warily over the railing, hands shaking, he sees Moon dangling halfway to the floor. Little George bounces in his arms, clapping and cheering and laughing away like this is all just another game.

Moon lowers himself the remaining distance to the floor as Sun scrambles down the elevator to meet him. He looks rightfully shaken, his faceplate screen blank of even stars, but his grip remains persistent. He’s not going to risk putting the kid down for a moment, even if he feels like he’s going to bluescreen any second now. Their landing is celebrated with the undeniable sound of George taking the world’s largest shit, and though Moon wants to be angry, all he manages to come up with in response is “Me too, kid.”

A voice calls over their internal radios right as Sun’s feet hit the floor.

“Can someone ring the mascots?” Asks the employee, “I’m stationed at Shutterbug with a customer and she says they have her baby…?”

“I’m on my way!” Sun answers the radio aloud. He takes the baby from Moon, who extends George to him from a distance, grateful — now more than ever — for their ability to turn off their nose receptors.

“What about the footie?” Moon gestures to the dirt-soaked clothes once his hands are free. “I don’t think she’s going to be happy if he’s brought back all dirty – or naked. That might be worse.”

On a whim, Sun turns George over to check the footie’s tag. Relief floods his system when he reads the name. “We carry this brand – I’ll bet anything that we have this exact footie somewhere in the store. Can you go find it?” He makes a face and turns his own nose receptors off a moment after. “Maybe a pack of diapers, too,” he laughs. “Oh! Can you also pick up a rabbit from Fluff-&-Stuff?”

“What about you?”

“I’m headed to the bathrooms so I can clean the little guy up.” He holds George up, then, wielding him like a stinky little weapon. “Unless you want to try changing a diaper?”

“Navy blue footie with a white pocket, got it,” answers Moon, already turning on his heel and heading in the opposite direction.

-

Ten minutes later, Sun exits the bathroom feeling like a brand new person. A scarred, mortified person, but new all the same. Who knew baby poop could be so traumatizing?

Moon had returned a moment before, toting with him the items that Sun had requested, and together they figured out how to dress the freshly cleaned child in a new diaper. Whoever said it wasn’t rocket science was right. It was somehow worse. Still, they persevered, and at the end of it all they had a clean, happy, freshly diapered baby to show for their efforts. Now it was just a matter of delivering him back to his mother.

“Why did you want the rabbit?” Moon asks as he trades over the stuffed animal, happy to hold little George now that the little tike isn’t a stink grenade.

“You’ll see,” answers Sun, refusing to elaborate. He rounds the corner with Moon following at his heel and steps into Shutterbug, greeting the mother with his best customer-pleasing smile. “So sorry for the wait, ma’am. George here had a bit of an accident on our way back.”

The woman tuts guilty, but is happy to see them all the same. “Oh, goodness, how embarrassing. I can pay for the diapers you used.”

“Nonsense!” He tells her with a casual wave of his hand, “We’re happy to lend a hand, and it’s not like the little guy could help himself.”

“You’re a sweetheart,” she smiles. “And he behaved for you, otherwise?”

Sun glances over his shoulder at Moon, and the two share a look.

Nodding, Moon steps forward and hands the child over when his mother extends her arms for him. “He was an angel,” Moon tells her.

They had both already agreed to keep their mouths shut on the entire ordeal, including and up to George’s newfound capabilities. Aside from how much trouble they would both find themselves in if anyone ever found out about the chase this single child had put them through, it simply wasn’t their place to mention it. Sun, especially, didn’t want to take away that special moment when his mother rightfully deserved to have it to herself.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she sighs with relief. “Thank you again for watching her. You two are a real blessing, you know that? I wouldn’t have been able to get all my ducks in a row without your help.”

“Anytime!” Sun answers. He spots a plaid dress hiding behind her, and lowers himself into a crouch. “Hello, again,” he calls to the little girl using his kindest voice, and extends the stuffed rabbit for her to take. “I noticed you had some bunnies on your dress, so I thought you might like this.”

Behind him, Moon relaxes into a fond smile.

“That’s very kind of you,” says her mother, who nudges her forward gently. “Go on, it’s okay,” she reassures her. “It’s a gift.”

The child hesitant, but eventually she peeks out from behind her mother just enough to take the offered rabbit, which she tucks against her chest in a great, big hug. “Th…Thank you,” she whispers. Then, feeling brave, she rewards him with a gap-toothed smile.

Moon clears his voice-box. “Well, we should let you get to it,” he says, full-well knowing that Sun would stay here cooing at the children all day if he let him.

And Sun, for what it’s worth, knows exactly what the vocal nudge means, and detaches himself from the family with a wave and some merry goodbyes before the two of them depart together.

“That was sweet of you,” Moon comments once they’re out of earshot. “You aren’t hoping for kids of our own, are you? I don’t think I’m ready for that level of commitment.” He elbows Sun with a smile, getting a hearty laugh out of him.

“Moon, I’ll be honest. I will be the happiest bot in the world if I never have to change another diaper again.” This time it’s Moon’s turn to laugh, and he laughs until his vocals strain with effort. “But, you know, it wasn’t too bad. Taking care of a baby, I mean. I think we make a pretty good team – and decent parents.”

“I’m the better parent,” Moon says around a wide grin. “You’re too much of a stick in the mud.”

“And you’re too spoiling!” Sun laughs, “Don’t think I haven’t seen you giving out candy to the kids that sneak off without their parents.”

“I’m teaching a valuable lesson,” Moon insists, hand flying over his heart like he’s offended by the notion. “If parents want to leave their children unattended, they have to face the consequences. It won’t be me dealing with the inevitable sugar rush.”

A gasp in the distance interrupts their playful bickering. They turn halfway, back towards Shutterbug. 

“Did you see that?” Chirps the mother, loud and clear. Her giddy voice followed immediately by the shutter of a camera. “Look – look! He’s walking!”

Again, the two share a look. Surprise becomes amusement becomes pride, then joy, and they laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

i just saw the one steve rogers piercing post and now all I can think of is steve with back dimple piercings. like he already has an insane arch to his back and just a pretty back in general. idk he would just look so pretty with them 😭

piercer!bucky is also going through my head now, him doing the piercings for steve and just admiring him aughhhh

related to this poll about Steve's possible piercings

My immediate thought:

OH MY GOD, THE BACK ARCHING AND SEX NOISES WHEN HE GETS PEIRCED, LYING ON BUCKY'S TABLE, ALL VULNERABLE AND SWEET, WOULD BE INSANE.

Okay, now, my more collected, calm, and cool thoughts:

You are so fucking correct.

I love that for him.

I love this AU. Instantly. I have fallen in love with this.

And this just screams masochistic Steve to me. Like. This Steve loves getting fucked with someone's *cough* piercer Bucky's *cough* thumbs pressed right down against his shiny new dimple of venus piercings. It's his goddamn favorite position. How is he ever supposed to go back to anything but face down ass up? He can't! It'd be fucking cruel and unusual punishment after such a goddamn revelation. It's the only way he ever wants to get off again.

It's so fucking good that no matter how badly he tries to muffle himself, biting down on his fist or stuffing his face down into the pillows, he's moaning gutturally. The sounds are fucked right out of him. Ah, ah, ah-! He can't hold anything back. His face is burning hot because he's so fucking embarrassed by how hard he's getting off to this--has anyone ever liked anything this much? is he just the biggest slut ever? He can't fucking keep his noises down. He can't stop his legs from spreading wider and wider and wider until he's pinned flat against the bed, no longer chest down, back arched, up on his knees with his thighs trembling. He's been knocked flat.

Fucked flat.

He's still moaning.

He's moaning because it hurts. The metal is digging into his body underhand, and it's the perfect hot, bright flash of pain to pair with his pleasure. It's deadly. Too good.

And, suddenly, all his throat-obliterating moans turn to fucked-out, hoarse whimpers as he crumbles, flat on the bed as he's fucked viciously, because his pierced nipples keep rubbing against the sheets and, oh god, his pierced cock is getting it too now.

The friction.

His toes are curled so tight that the soles of his feet cramp, but he doesn't want it to stop. It can't stop. He needs to be fucked, handprint bruises painted in vivid purple and blue around his hips, until he's empty of cum--he wants it all forced out of him, fucked out of him mercilessly. He wants to cum and cum and cum.

More. Please. S'sogood.

He loves how it hurts and how it's too much and too good.

Also, god, I can't stop thinking about this version of Steve loving how the inside of his suit gets caught and draaaags over his piercings. It's not enough to do any damage; it's just enough to be white-hot admist battle, leaving him shaky and whimpery as he stumbles onto the quinjet afterward. The first thing he always does post-mission is tweak his pierced nipples unkindly and cry out, spilling over his clenched-tight fist in all consuming waves as he showers off his sweat.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

[withallthatisleftofmyheart]

ADAR & MAEDHROS!! ADAR & MAEDHROS!! ADAR & MAEDHROS!!

ilu OP for giving this option for drabble request 😭🫂 anything you come up with about these two will be my absolute mostest fav. ❤️‍🔥

Thank you @valar-did-me-wrong 🖤 I've been wanting to write this for weeks so I got this out very quick lol. I could honestly write so much more of this but here's a start.

Adar sneaks off to visit Maedhros on Thangorodrim (at this point in time, there is a ledge beneath Maedhros' feet).

No smut but dub-con hydration (?) and suggestive feeding of salted meat.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(One year since Maedhros was first chained)

“Drink,” Adar commanded as he proffered a waterskin to the flame-haired prince.

Maedhros slapped the waterskin from his hand. Adar did not attempt to keep hold of or catch it. If this was how the prisoner was going to behave, so be it. The open waterskin flopped onto the stony ledge. Adar’s lips pressed into a thin line. He thought of how freely he had accepted Mairon’s ‘gift’ of wine. A sharp exhale huffed through his nose. 

Maedhros swallowed as he watched the water trickle over the edge and down the mountainside. Adar noticed a slight wince as he did so. He thought the prince’s throat must be raw as flayed hide.

“I was not permitted to bring that to you,” Adar said, brow furrowed “I offered you a kindness at great risk to myself.”

“You are not capable of kindness,” Maedhros rasped, “Begone, foul beast.” 

Adar sighed. “Very well.” 

He bent down to retrieve the waterskin and had to roll out of the way of a ferocious kick that Maedhros aimed in his direction. There was not much room on the rocky ledge. He landed perilously close to the drop. Adar wobbled slightly but quickly regained his balance and got to his feet. 

“You were not so bold with Melkor,” Adar commented. Stomach-churning images of Maedhros’ very public torture flashed through his mind. 

“You are not Morgoth,” Maedhros hissed, “You are a mere underling. A snivelling coward. A traitor to your kin.”

Adar raised an eyebrow, rumors had reached Angband of what transpired at Alqualondë.

Maedhros turned his face away. 

“So it is true,” Adar muttered, “It would seem you and I more similar than you’d care to admit.”

“Hold your tongue, wretc-” Maedhros’ retort was cut off by a gravelly coughing fit. 

“I suggest you take advantage of my kindness the next time I visit,” Adar said coldly, before leaving to climb back down the mountain.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(3 years since Maedhros was first chained)

Adar sat watching the prince from a safe distance. On his belt hung a waterskin and a pouch containing a strip of salted meat. Maedhros looked weaker than he had two years ago. The prince leaned against the cliff face with one arm hanging above him. His eyes were closed, and his knees bent as far as his shackle would allow.

When the prince first arrived, he had been draped in a red cloak made from the finest fabric Adar had ever seen. It was ever so light and delicate, giving the effect of a waterfall of blood plunging down around his shoulders. His long blaze of hair was knotted into intricate braids that dripped with jewels. His skin had a lustre to it that was different to the elves Adar had once lived amongst. Adar found himself instantly fascinated by the Noldor, who had crossed into the West and lived for a time under the light of the two trees, only to forsake paradise and take up arms. 

Cuiviénen was supposed to be a paradise, not as great as Aman, but a haven nonetheless. It had not seemed that way to Adar. Strange shadows had haunted his every step. There were terrible sounds in the woods, piercing horns of hunting and whispers of malice in the thickets. None would believe Adar's fears. At first, they just dismissed him, but after a time they grew suspicious of him. Adar watched others sing and dance, learn skills and crafts, fall in love... Start families. It was maddening how oblivious they were to the threat that surrounded them. 

Maedhros stirred. Adar watched his chest muscles shift beneath his skin. They were smaller now but he still appeared somewhat strong despite three years of starvation. Perhaps it had been four, Adar was unsure if Melkor allowed him to be fed during his year of continuous torture.

One shining silver eye opened and swivelled to Adar.

“Leave me be,” Maehdros croaked. 

Adar got to his feet and approached. He removed the waterskin from his belt, uncorked it, and took a swig. 

“See? It is safe,” he said.

“Poison courses through your veins. I imagine you are immune to its effects,” Maedhros bit back through gritted teeth.

The Noldo’s skin was weather-beaten and dull. His eyes were sunken and darkness hung beneath them. Adar moved in close and reached up to put a hand on the back of Maedhros’ neck. The prince was much taller than him but he was weakened, so it did not take much effort to pull his head down. Adar lifted the waterskin to Maedhros’ cracked and peeling lips. 

“Drink,” Adar urged.

Maedhros beat his free hand against Adar’s chest. It felt like the fist of a child. Adar let him continue his feeble resistance and tilted up the waterskin. Maedhros spluttered and tried to wrench his head away but as soon as the water passed his lips, he stilled and gulped it down greedily. 

“There you go,” Adar muttered as he watched the lump in Maedhros throat bob up and down. It was a satisfying sight.

Once Maedhros drained it, Adar removed the waterskin from his lips, affixed it to his belt, and stepped back. 

“What now?” the prince panted as he swayed on his chained arm. Water dribbled down his chin. Adar wiped it away with his thumb.

“I brought some meat,” Adar replied.

“No, what will happen to me now?” Maedhros asked, his face compressing into a spiteful glare.

“You will feel better because your thirst has been quenched,” Adar replied, exasperated.

 Maedhrdos just stared at him. 

Adar sighed. “I have been in your position,” he confessed, “I remember how it felt to be consumed by burning thirst. I pity you.” 

Maedhros continued to study Adar’s face. Adar took the opportunity to follow the ripple of the prince’s red hair down as it draped across his bare chest. Dishevelled and feeble as he was, Adar preferred him like this. It was more natural than the pompous finery he had arrived in. Perhaps, beneath their gaudy jewels, the Noldor were not so different from the Uruk.

Maedhros’ expression softened.

“You remind me of my cousin,” Maedros said, “Though his beauty greatly exceeds yours, I see a shadow of him in your features.”

Adar’s brow furrowed. He could not parse meaning from his words. Were they a compliment or a slight?

“You should eat,” Adar held out the salted meat.

“What is it?” Maedhros asked. His tongue slid along his lower lip.

“Warg,” Adar replied.

Meadhros sighed. “Give it to me,” he said, hand outstretched. 

Adar cupped the prince’s cheek in his palm. Maedhros flinched, and a soft gasp escaped his lips. Adar brought the salted meat up to his mouth. The prince tensed for a moment, then lowered his head to allow Adar to feed him. A tense silence hung between them as Maedhros ate. He held Adar’s gaze as he chewed and swallowed, but Adar's eyes drifted down to the prince's lips. A very inappropriate thought came into his mind, unbidden. Adar's hand recoiled from Maedhros' cheek, and he abruptly stepped back. Maedhros scrambled to catch the last morsel before it fell to the floor. He swiftly popped it in his mouth and devoured it.

“You will need all the strength you can muster if you are to survive Thangorodrim,” Adar said in an even tone, brushing over his brief fluster.

“Or you could free me,” Maedhros asserted.

“No,” Adar shook his head, “I will not disobey my master.”

Maedhros raised his brows. “Have you not already?” 

Adar's jaw clenched. He turned to leave.

[immobiliter]

so this is less me being salty and more a genuine observation from someone who has been in the rp community for way too fuckin long, but i think sometimes, collectively ( because i do consider myself guilty of this from time to time, i will call myself out ), we're all a bit hesitant to skip the set up when it comes to a thread and instead simply throw the two muses into a situation, or jump straight in with the reaction to a partner's thread/reply instead of lingering for too long on what our muses are thinking. i like to use the phrase in media res a lot when i talk about this because it's a really underrated writing technique for the rp community and doesn't really get talked about much

delving into a character's mindset is a great thing, and sometimes it's helpful to have those paragraphs where you're really digging into the nitty-gritty of what makes that muse tick or why they are reacting in a certain way ( this is particularly the case in an emotionally charged thread, or if you're trying to wrangle two muses into the same room for the sake of interaction ) but i think sometimes it's easy to forget that a thread still needs a reaction in order to justify it as a thread. a thread is collaborative by nature: you are not just there to write your muse but you are there to react to the other person's muse and give them stimuli to bounce off of. i think this is why i tend to gravitate towards muses who find it easy to create that stimuli: either by being naturally extroverted or so restless they won't sit still for long or just characters who are good at moving the plot along, particularly if they do that a lot within their own canon. but even with characters who are not that way inclined, i still think there are ways that you can make threads more reactive: whether that's by describing the setting around them, or their body language/what they are physically doing while in the scene. all of that stuff your partner can actively react to, whereas a two paragraph deep dive into why your muse is wearing a particular hat ( an extreme example lmao ) doesn't help your partner. just describe the hat and, if it gets referenced by the other muse later, then you can delve into the whys and hows because it's actually helpful to the story you're trying to tell.

this also links into my other point that you also don't necessarily have to sacrifice all of your internal monologue to accomplish this — you don't have to delve into all of that at the start of a thread reply ( i have been guilty of this myself lmao ), instead you can filter in relevant things as you go along as i explained in my example above

[jasperthejester]

finally had the fanfic cannon event of a fic becoming much longer than you thought it be

[slusheeduck]

Fictober 2023 Day 12 - Prompt: "You're the smartest person I know." Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

“Astarion, I am taking you up on your request to learn magic.”

Astarion blinked, and he slowly looked up from his book. His mouth twitched after a moment. “Gale, darling, I appreciate your ardor, but you do know I was just trying to get a rise out of you?” he asked, shutting his book. “We’re at the point where I can admit that now, aren’t we?”

“Ah, but…” Oh, oh dear, the finger was up; Gale was serious. “I know that every barb tends to stem from a place of truth. Besides, it never hurts to have another tool in your arsenal.”

Astarion sighed. “Is there really time for this?”

“Always. Now, no more trying to get out of it.” Gale motioned for Astarion to follow him and, though he gave an almighty eyeroll as he did, the vampire did indeed follow him. “I’ve just one spell in mind. It’s second level, which may be a bit tricky if you’re not practiced, so it may take a few days of work. But between your natural knack for magic and your keen mind, I think you’ll catch on quicker than you expect.”

Astarion’s mouth quirked. “You think I have a keen mind?”

“Well, you were a magister, weren’t you?” Gale said, sending a wry little smile over his shoulder. “And you come up with lies quicker than anyone I’ve ever seen—it’s impressive.”

“That actually means something, coming from you.” Astarion sighed as they reached Gale’s tent, crossing his arms. “All right, you’ve won me over with flattery. What spell are you going to teach me?”

Gale grinned, and with a quick movement of his hands and a flash of purple light, there were suddenly two Gales in front of him. They moved in sync, one a perfect copy of the other—Astarion wasn’t sure which one was the right one.

“Mirror Image,” he said, voice echoing between the two. The two Gales glanced at each other at the echo, then lifted their hands with another quick movement. One Gale dissipated like mist, and the real one was left behind. “I’ve seen the way you look in mirrors and windows, and truth be told, I was trying to find a way to cast it on you, but it only works with the caster’s image. And I thought, ah! What a perfect way to give you the magic lesson you asked for and a good look at your face.”

Oh. That was…nice. Of course, Astarion knew Gale was nice—the looks he sent at some of Astarion’s preferred methods of conflict resolution said enough—but this was…actually nice. Kind, even. He crossed his arms tighter, unsure of how exactly to respond.

“But I don’t know what I look like,” he said after a beat. “I wouldn’t know the image to put out.”

Oh, the finger was up again. “Yes, but that’s the thing! Mirror image doesn’t rely on your mental image of yourself. It relies on magic creating a kind of…mold of yourself, however you look in the moment, then putting it there in front of you. I actually have a hilarious story about how I found out I was sporting an embarrassingly long streak of sauce on my face at a party when I cast it to show off.” When Astarion’s doubt didn’t subside, Gale reached forward to grasp his arm, giving a little smile. “Look. With this, the Weave does the work. I’ve seen you in action, I know you still have access to it. This will work. I promise.”

A few complicated emotions flickered across Astarion’s face. Doubt, hope, curiosity, disappointment. His eyes finally met Gale’s, and he gave a long sigh.

“Gods damn it, you give Scratch a run for his money with those eyes,” he grumbled, then held up his hands. “Fine. I’ll try. But if you’re wrong—and that’s likely—I’m never going to let you forget it.”

~

Gale hadn’t been lying—this was work. The better part of their time in camp for the next week had been spent reaching into the Weave—working with it, playing with it even, and learning how to harness it to do what the caster wanted.

It was by no means easy; the first couple times, Astarion had thrown up his hands and stormed off in frustration as he couldn’t make it work. But Gale was nothing if not patient. He didn’t needle Astarion into staying outside of a gentle, “Let’s try just one more time. Then you can go and eat a boar.” When Astarion refused, he let him go without a fight. When Astarion came back a few hours later (and significantly bloodier than when he’d left) and asked if they could try again, he always obliged.

And finally, after several days, the work paid off. Just as he’d done before, Astarion did everything Gale instructed to cast the spell, but this time a shimmery shape—roughly the size and shape of Astarion—stood before them. It only lasted a moment, but a giddy laugh escaped Astarion all the same.

“That was…did you see that?” he asked, looking to Gale with a broad smile.

“I did, very well done! But I knew it wouldn’t take you long.” He gave Astarion’s back a congratulatory pat. “Let’s celebrate.”

“But I think I can get it stronger if I try again.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will. But take it from me, rewarding yourself for a job well done is excellent incentive to keep going.” Gale ducked into his tent, rustling around, then returned with a bottle and two mismatched cups. “Not as excellent as the Elverquisst was, I’m afraid, but still,” he said as he poured, then handed one cup to Astarion before clinking his against it. “To your success.”

Astarion smiled, tipping the glass toward Gale before he took a drink. He leaned back against a nearby stone, looking the wizard over. “You’re actually a good teacher, you know.”

“Well, it’s a little self-serving. Magic, the Weave, is my foremost passion; getting to talk about it to a willing audience is just as much a boon for me as it is for you.” Gale gave a smile around his cup. “So thank you for indulging me.”

Astarion waved his hand with a scoff, then went quiet for a very long moment as he drank. “Mystra has no right to be so cruel to you,” he finally said, voice soft.

Gale choked. “What did you say?” he wheezed, patting his chest.

“Mystra has no right to be so cruel to you,” Astarion repeated, voice stronger. He waved his cup irritably. “So you got in over your head—who wouldn’t if a god made them their lover? And clearly you’ve already had to deal with the consequences even before she told you to…to commit ritual suicide as your only way to forgiveness. You don’t need her forgiveness. She doesn’t deserve it.”

“She does.” Gale’s voice was very soft, and he was steadfastly avoiding Astarion’s gaze.

“Why, because Elminster said so?” Astarion set his cup aside, then strode right up to Gale, grabbing his arms and forcing him to make eye contact with him. “Listen to me, because I’m only saying this once. You’re the smartest person I know. The only reason I’m not saying you’re also the kindest is because Wyll is twenty feet away. You, Gale of Waterdeep, are literally fighting against Illithids and the Three Dead Gods with just us, a tadpole, and your wits.” He leaned in, voice lowering to something almost dangerous. “You don’t need Mystra’s forgiveness. She should be begging for yours.”

Gale had never been very good at holding a poker face, but now, it was nearly impossible for Astarion to get a read on him. There was something brewing in his eyes, something straining against his lips, but neither quite made it to the surface. He shut his eyes and swallowed it down, then let out a long sigh as he looked up at Astarion again.

“Let’s give it another try,” he said quietly. “See how long you can hold the image.”

~

Mystra did not come up again in their lessons—contrary to popular belief, Astarion did know when to back off. Besides, Gale was so enthusiastic when Astarion showed a bit more progress that it felt…mean to bring up something clearly so painful. And not at all mean in a fun way.

And, really, who cared about gods and bombs when he was this close to mastering Mirror Image? He was getting closer—the shimmery figure was a little more solid, matching Astarion’s movements like a shadow (been a while since he’d had one of those, too) and sometimes there would be a bit more detail: a flash of pale curls, a clear image of his shirt.

And then, out of nowhere, everything seemed to click. He focused on feeling the Weave, moved his hands just the way he ought to, said the right words with just the right inflection, and…

There he was.

He knew Gale was praising him, vaguely heard the impressed noises from the few members of camp that had gathered around to watch him as he’d gotten closer and closer to mastering the spell, but none of it was registering. Instead, he was transfixed at the vampire standing in front of him—a little shimmery at the edges, and wearing an expression that clearly wasn’t Astarion’s, because certainly he couldn’t look so softly surprised and, of all things, misty-eyed like this fellow did. But it was him.

The image mimicked his movements as he went to touch his hair, his lips, his nose, watching to see if they matched what he felt. He tugged the skin of his cheeks back; gods, he really did have laugh-lines, didn’t he? Had they always been so prominent?

He swallowed down the tightness in his throat, then gave a weak little laugh as he looked over his shoulder. “Fal, my love, you are shit at descriptions,” he called back, then looked back at the image for one more moment before it dissipated.

“There you are, your reflection as needed,” Gale said with a smile. “No mirror necessary.”

Astarion swallowed again, looking up at Gale. “Thank you,” he said, voice very, very quiet but emphatic. “You can’t possibly know what you’ve given me.”

Gale held up his hands. “Ah, ah, this was all your work,” he said, then gave a warm smile. “All I’ve given you were instructions and a little encouragement, same as any friend would do.”

Astarion gave a wobbly little smile in return, then took a deep breath before rubbing his face. “Gods, I am exhausted,” he suddenly said after a subtle clearing of his throat. “Does magic always take it out of you? No wonder you get winded after sneaking for thirty seconds.”

“Some of us have knees that actually match our age, thank you,” Gale said, catching on. “But I think we’ve more than earned a nice rest by the fire with…well, not excellent wine, but whatever we have available. Come on. Let’s reward a job well done.”

Fictober 2023 Drabble Master Post

[undertale-fic-librarby]

Commit His Body to the Ground

A spinoff drabble of Dust to Dust focusing on Nightmare this time to celebrate reaching 200 followers. It's pretty short & was written in one sitting. Trigger warning for character death! Happy reading!

Nightmare stands in shock as he sees one of his tentacles stabbed through Dream's chest, the other looking back at him with the same shocked expression.

Slowly, as Dream starts to dust away, Nightmare's corruption begins to melt off of him, occasionally sloughing off in semi solid chunks & hitting the ground with a splat.

As this happens, Nightmare falls to his knees next to the pile of dust that's slowly growing, hands limp next to him as he tries to process what he just did.

He didn't mean to, really! He thought Dream would dodge as usual & their song & dance would continue for years to come, battles fought with wins & losses on both sides.

But even as the others likely continue to fight around him, occupied with their own opponents, all that Nightmare can hear is silence, ringing in his skull.

"I-I didn't mean to."

He thinks he says, jaw moving, but no sound reaches him.

Slowly reaching towards the now disintegrated body of his brother, his twin, Nightmare hovers a shaking hand over it, wanting to touch it, since maybe it was all an illusion, but hesitant, because what if it wasn't?

Leaning over the pile of stagnant dust, he blinks in shock as he sees a droplet fall onto it. It must have started raining, but why wasn't he getting wet?

A second droplet falls next to the first & this time Nightmare can see a purple tinge to it. Oh, he thinks to himself. I'm crying. When was the last time he had properly cried?

As purple tears begin to fall faster, Nightmare slowly comes back to himself, hearing fading back in as he realizes he can't hear any sounds of fighting.

Looking up, he startles as he sees both his own gang & the Stars standing around him, varying expressions spread amongst them.

Still crying, Nightmare can't resist looking back down at the pile of dust in front of him & spots the yellow cape Dream always wore, partially buried.

With a trembling hand, he carefully picks it up & pulls it close to himself. Looking back up at the others surrounding him, he speaks in a voice wobbly with emotion.

"I killed my brother."