#technical beta reader

[tuliharja]

Does anyone know where to look for a beta-reader for a fanfic? I usually would be looking for one from Fanfiction.net, but alas, at the moment it's facing quite a few problems.

I'm merely looking for a technical beta for my little fic because I've zero confidence posting my fanfics without someone looking those through. (I try to fix my grammar, sentence structures, etc., by myself, but when English isn't your mother tongue, it isn't.)

As for the fandom...well, I've written my fic in such a way one could read it fully fandom blind. (But it's cool if you know the canon characters.) The only thing that might be a bit turn-off is the fact it's canon character x OC fic.

So, if anyone knows where I could look for a possible beta reader or if one would be interested enough to even suggest themselves for the task, I would really appreciate that lot!

[peachetteprice]

Hi!! I have a request

I have had this idea of singing/hummjng Simon “Ghost” Riley back to sleep after he has had a nightmare or can’t relax enough to fall asleep.

Reader can carry a tune; maybe not a grammy nominee but Simon loves it when they do sing.

Simon doesn’t ask them himself to hum or sing to him, it sort of just happens. No one knows how to calm him down like they do and the way Reader hums/sings one of his favorite songs and gently rubs his back works better than he thought it would.

Thank you 😊💖‼️

Hello! I took some creative liberties with the prompt given. It is only slightly different from what you gave me, but I hope I did it justice! Please let me know your thoughts. @skrubob

(Note: influenced by a sleep disorder my dad has. I don't know, I thought I could relate a bit more with that idea!)

Strangers in the Night

Simon "Ghost" Riley - 1.9K words

It happened again.

It happened again like it happened most nights: without much warning, and for no particular reason.

It wasn't a spectacular night. There was nothing distinct about the moon and its size, neither the thickness of its crescent nor the depth of its craters. It wasn't a notable day for the planets and their stars. Nobody had wished on a comet. Nothing, in fact, nothing had gone on in the day to warrant such an odd happening.

Like every day, whenever Simon was off-deployment, he woke up at 0615. No sooner and no later than the sun rose, did he clambour from the bedsheets with a tired groan and a stretch - only occasionally might he have triggered his shoulder blades to seize up, though, thankfully, today was not one of those days - make his careful way downstairs so as to not wake you, flick the kettle on for a brew and stare out of the kitchen window until its rolling boil turned to a simmer, and it clicked itself off.

The cuppa was perfect.

There wasn't a single thing wrong with it.

In fact, if he could have sampled a half-pint of it, dried it into a powder, dusted it onto a canvas and hung it up on the wall in the bedroom - so that he could have something of a reminder of the most well-balanced cup of tea he'd ever made - then he just might have. Though, that wasn't to say that it was anything extraordinary. Not at all. It was a simple, bog-standard cuppa with a dash of milk, a humped teaspoon of white cane sugar, and all he did at the end, when he pulled the teabag out, was make sure not to pinch the sides of it on the rim; that was all there was to it.

And that was all to re-iterate that nothing at all about Simon Riley's day was unusual.

To insist on that point, as you readied yourself to work, and he gave you your cuppa for the morning - two sugars, a whiff of milk, exactly how you liked it - he made sure to give you a kiss on your lips just as your palm neared the door handle. It lasted exactly three seconds, and there was nothing overtly obscene about the smack that followed or the light tap he gave the rear of your thigh as you left.

When you were gone, he did the laundry. The washing machine finished at nine, so he put the tumble dryer on, too. That finished at eleven-thirty, and everything else was put on the line in the garden, which dried until three. Between then and three, if only to keep himself occupied, he fixed one of the dining chairs that you had leant too far back on and splintered the wooden bar at the lumbar region, for which he had to pop to B&Q to grab another bottle of wood glue, which, by and by, was also nothing peculiar in the slightest.

Once that was fixed, and the washing was dry, he collected, folded - even ironed, if the crinkles needed a spot of flattening, in which case it was one of your work blouses or a pair of his fatigues - then sorted them into the chest of drawers in your bedroom.

And, of course, once that was put away, he had his second brew of the day. Equally as plain. Equally as perfect.

By 1800 hours, you were home, and he gave your lips another kiss. Six seconds, this time, double the length of the one from the morning, with a little more vigour, and unlike the previous, you gave his left buttock a little clench, then a pat, and off you went to check the fridge for dinner.

Spag-bol. Spaghetti bolognese. With parmesan, too. The only thing that could've been somewhat abnormal was the addition of cut-up Cumberland sausages that desperately needed eating up, though it was hardly the monumental incident required to be the reason behind it happening again. It was nice. Dinner. Not your finest work, but then again, weekday meals, especially when Simon was home and you had to cook for two again, never were.

After washing up, you gave him a peck on the cheek, and he held you for a moment against the cabinets, just relishing in the body heat that he missed that morning. And when that was over, you popped the TV on - something completely ordinary in genre, motif, and drama - and fell asleep against him on the sofa.

Perhaps it was why you didn't notice so much. Perhaps if you'd stayed awake, you would have known when, why, or how it came to be.

An hour or two - or some duration of time in between - of light sleep passed, and you woke to the sound of his electric toothbrush whirring away. You joined him in the bathroom to brush your teeth, he slung an arm about your waist and drew circles into your stomach, though you were still some variable of dazed by the sudden jolt from being asleep to awake, but it was all alright, truly, because within two minutes, you were dead asleep again.

It was uncertain how much time had passed between falling asleep and being awake again. That was the terrible thing with sleep. Sleep blurs the lines between seconds and hours. What could have been five minutes could have easily been five hours, and what could have been ten hours often felt no longer than ten seconds. Time becomes an illusion, much like the theory in which, on one planet, it is equally plausible that thirty seconds in passing may equal three days in another, and yet, both planets cohabit the same space, the same universe, mere light years apart.

When you did manage to fall asleep again after brushing your teeth, and when it did happen again, it was a mere three seconds.

There was shouting. Some rambling. It bled into your unconsciousness until, with a rather heavy dip in the sheets, a bolt from the blue, you were left wide-awake.

"Simon?" You said into the void. There wasn't much to be seen at night.

"Where? Where is it? There's a--"

--You were awake now. That was for definite. Three seconds had passed, and Simon was awake, too. There was something odd about the frenzy in his eyes. If it wasn't for his blown pupils, you would have been convinced there was an intruder somewhere in the house. But he looked delirious. Three seconds had passed, and he hadn't slept a wink for something more like three days. But in the same breath, he was barely awake.

He was somewhere in between, mumbling under his breath about a spider and how it was somewhere here, in the bedroom, and it wanted him.

He wasn't making any sense - Simon Riley was not afraid of a bloody spider.

Twenty-two hours, eighteen minutes, and three seconds had passed. Nothing pertubing had happened prior, and yet, it was happening again.

"Simon, love, go back to sleep." You enveloped the shadow of his waist and pressed him back to the mattress - luckily, he hadn't left the bed yet. He was in and out of it, then. Ever-mumbling, eyelids still bursting wide every few seconds with the type of fear that should have only been present in somebody murdered. "It's alright."

It didn't happen often.

A few times since you'd been together, all countable on one hand, which, at this point, was years. He'd told you it might happen the first night you'd slept together in the same bed. Not the first time you'd slept together, full stop, but when he moved in and co-opted the king-sized bed in the bedroom. It was real, then. The relationship.

He never remembered it in the morning. Never did. Never will. You know he never did - he would have apologised if he did. Never asks if it's happened, but he's sure it has, because he notices the way your eyes never leave him the morning after, as if you're worried he might start yelling obscenities again and you have to hold him.

You always have to hold him. Like his mother did. One arm along his belly, stroking his stomach, and the other around the curve of his head, petting his hair like he's a little lamb. He would never be embarrassed about it, what you have to do to calm him, but if he were to ever ask if he'd ever woken up in a state, looking half as scared as a little boy in the dark - you wouldn't tell him. No. It's only a memory for you, and you'd rather like to keep it that way.

"It's alright." You cooed.

Sometimes, you sing to him. If he needs it. You sung that night, actually. He needed it that night. God, you must have sounded awful. Part of you was pleased at the fact that he never remembers it once he wakes up, because you'd quite like to avoid the conversation about how you can only just about hold a tune, and not with much fluidity.

It was Etta James' I'd Rather Go Blind.

The DJs on Smooth Radio played it during crawl traffic on the M60, rattled on about how incredible of a voice she had, they did, which was salt in the wound, really - there was an accident that morning on the hard shoulder, it took all of fifteen minutes to clear - and it was all that was stuck in your head at work, on the toilet, in the break-room and in the car on the way home.

It was the only song that came to mind as you started singing. A few wobbly notes here and there, nothing but of jumble of lyrics where it was certain you'd said more than one of the pre-chorus lines in favour of getting to the chorus itself, and you could hardly stop yourself from whispering some notes that you knew you wouldn't be able to reach at a murmur.

Simon settled a little at that. You were sure there wasn't much cognition behind those eyes - he was nothing but a walking zombie whenever it happened - but his hands clasped the one on his stomach, his pupils pinched back to normal, and by the second chorus, he was calm again.

You held him for a while. A long while. Until daybreak came in. Just to make sure it wouldn't happen again.

And at 0615, when the sun crept in to cast its shadow along the foot of the bed - and it would still be another hour until you rose - Simon awoke, stretched out his shoulder blades - though, this time, they did seize up - and faced your conked-out body.

Simon did notice something peculiar, then.

Your arms wrapped around his torso - which were often the other way around - should have been clutching the covers. There never meant to be a kink in your brow. Never was. Never should have been. Only on the mornings when you looked at him with too much empathy - when something had happened the night before that you never wished to talk about, was there ever such concern knotted into them.

And, in that moment, Simon knew. He leant a kiss to your lips, later joined them at your earlobe, too, before whispering;

"Thank you, love."

And there actually was something anomalous about that day, irreverent of the last. For some reason, whether because of the stars, the moon, or the planets, Simon had an Etta James song stuck in his head. How bloody weird.

| Masterlist |

[the-raindeer-king]

I imagine Soap's one of those guys who is obsessed with his car. Has fancy custom seat covers, gets it cleaned regularly, buys the fancy shit when he gets an oil change. His car is in really good condition too. He takes very good care of his car. Sometimes he jokingly calls his car his baby. Sometimes you're not entirely convinced they're jokes. 

Anyway, he lets you drive his car though. Says he likes knowing his favorite two things are together. Likes having his car smell like your perfume/cologne. (If you're smaller than him, he will give you shit for forgetting to move the seat back, but it's all in good fun.)

Things are good, quiet. Peaceful. Johnny's just returned from a mission, and you're on the way to pick him up when the worst thing happens. 

You're cruising down the road, when a deer runs out in front of you. Panicked, you swerve the car. Johnny's car. And crash into a tree, the seat belt digging into your chest as you lurch forward. 

The paramedics reach you before Johnny does, and you sit in the back of the ambulance, a shock blanket wrapped around your shoulders as you wait. All you do is stare at the damage done to his car. 

You weren't speeding, so the damage isn't as bad as it could've been. But it's still damaged, the bumper crumpled in on itself. The windshield is shattered. One of the front tires has gone flat. There's glass and shrapnel everywhere. And you know your relationship is ruined. He loved that car as much as he loved you, and there's no way he's going to forgive you for this. 

There's tears in your eyes already, as Price pulls up to the scene. Johnny doesn't wait for the car to be fully parked, before he's throwing himself out and rushing over to… you. 

“Och, bonnie, are ye alright?” He asks, voice soft and full of worry. His eyes scan over you, searching for wounds. 

“I'm fine,” you answer quietly. There's an ugly looking bruise stretching across your forehead and chest, from the airbag and seat belt. You might still be in shock. 

You're surprised, when he wraps his arms around you, crushing you in a hug. He's not mad. He's not cursing and yelling like you expected him to. 

“What about your car?” You ask, voice shaking. 

Johnny pulls back, to look over his shoulder at the damage done to his car. He sighs softly, running a hand through his mohawk. God, how he had loved that car. But… he loves you more, and he's just relieved that you're okay.

“The car is replaceable, bonnie. Yer not,” he replies, turning to look at you. He leans forward to press a soft kiss to your bruised forehead. “I'm just glad yer not hurt any worse than this.”

He pauses to scoop you up, enjoying the way it makes you yelp in response, clinging to him. “Now, come on. The Captain has been dying to meet ye!”

[rindomness]

In honor of me finishing the first draft of the Phanshuffle fic, here's the updated Thief designs for them all. I'm saving real-world redesigns for the Strikers fic that has, somehow, inexplicably, sprouted up in my wips.

Please please feel free to ask me any questions about them. I'm obsessed with this AU. It is my baby. There's strikers stuff now in case you missed that at the top and I really want to talk about it.

[purecommemasolitude]

"i have too many wips and not enough endings to those wips," complains local writer starting new wip

[sin-sidejob]

robotus has a tendency to just blatantly disregard whatever you’re doing when he wants to fuck you

You’re prepping for a meeting tomorrow and going over your notes in an empty office? Getting bent over with your notecards scattered haphazardly like second hand confetti, and there’s definitely going to be some ink smears.

Working late on paperwork and sitting in the glow of your laptop screen? He’s got you seated on his lap and rewarding you with thrusts until you finish both the files, and all over his lap.

Trying to cook dinner for the two of you — even though he doesn’t technically need to eat but still can — he sees you in that apron with the pretty little bow synched and tied. Ro’ll have you ass on the counter and knees over his forearms while he drills you onto the countertop, face against your chest and beaming when he sees you all fucked out. He’ll swipe a finger over your sex and suck it clean with his silver tongue, telling you that you’re good enough to eat.

Sometimes he’ll drag you into closets or bathrooms and leave them unlocked should someone come in or walk past and hear the lewd squelches or the skin slapping or the way you cry out so brokenly — keep saying his name like salvation and he’s the only god you believe in.

Those times make him a bit more empathetic to humanity, especially when he gets to rule the small portion of it that is you.

He doesn’t mind it when it’s you but there’s seldom times you completely catch him off guard, the best time he thinks to mess with your plans or schedule is right when you’re getting ready for the day or about to leave and he just plants his face between your thighs and you don’t even think about yourself let alone leaving for someplace. Reality doesn’t kick in until hours later, long after whatever you were planning to go do, and he’s got you so sated and fucked out that the world could implode and you’d still be having an orgasm that’s more earth-shattering.

If you piss him off or have to cancel on him he’ll fake an emergency just to pin you to the wall the second you come in the door, your clothes pulled out the way just enough so he can fuck the breath out of you and any anger you could’ve wielded. It’s not the healthiest thing, but it’s fun as hell and any time you could complain he’s sat you on his face and made a show outta’ how he doesn’t have a need to breathe. Show off.

This was spite written in honor of @cognitosclowns

[clumsily-stacked-fandoms]

If anyone wants I would give anything to beta-read for someone. Or edit. PLEASE just reach out to me and I’m good at it trust me i used to be my english teacher’s favourite

[strawbubbysugar]

Hey, so I wanted to ask about the new Mcs for bethroned. You mentioned that you were going to tweak it around to make a unique story for it. Does that mean it won't be a sun/moon x reader anymore? Sorry if this is a silly question or if it has already been answered ^_^!!!!

It’s ok, not a silly question! :) yes, I’m going to tweak it around once I’m done so that it isn’t a fanfic anymore. For example, 50 shades of grey started off as a twilight fanfiction!

It’ll be a unique story with characters unrelated to fnaf, and not a x reader, the “you” in the story will become their own character

[giddlygoat]

eight hours | the stanley parable fic 

[ 2527 words • fluff, could be seen as ship or platonic • oneshot; may be continued ] 

stanley’s tired. he just wants to get a good night’s sleep. the narrator eventually obliges, even if he doesn’t fully understand stanley’s desire to lay unconscious for eight hours. 

…

“stanley, what in the world are you doing?” 

usually, the narrator could wait patiently for stanley to leave his office before beginning their new run. he would use this short period as a sort of mental refresher, preparing himself for the adventure ahead and taking a moment of quiet to himself. stanley always left eventually, often in moments, but something was holding them up. he had seemingly crawled under his desk with his back to the corner in a curled up position that could only be so comfortable. 

“are you feeling unwell? you’ve been laying there for nearly half an hour now.” the narrator recognized the similarities between stanley’s display and general human tendencies regarding sleep, although he had not seen him asleep very often at all. he knew for a fact that stanley didn’t even require sleep. 

stanley only shifted slightly, adjusting the arm folded under his head. he made no effort to explain himself, or address the narrator at all, for that matter. 

“well, as long as you’ve not contracted some sort of deadly virus or something, i suppose i can’t stop you from sleeping my precious time away.” 

stanley’s face crinkled up just slightly, just for a second. the narrator felt a small zip of amusement through him. “yes, i suppose i should leave you to it. not like we have anything better to be doing right now… like exploring the surprise i made for you.” 

stanley did not perk up as the narrator had expected. that was strange; he was certain telling people that there’s a surprise to look forward to was supposed to be a sure way of getting their attention. 

“i said,” the narrator cleared his throat for emphasis. “you’ll miss your special surprise.” 

stanley burrowed his head deeper in his arms, as if that could block out the disembodied voice. 

the narrator sighed in exasperation. “come on, stanley, work with me here. is the mystery not enticing enough for you? what about i drop hints, or we play a game of hot and cold?” 

stanley did not move. at this point, the narrator knew very well that stanley would not be able to ignore him enough to fall asleep, and he deduced that his protagonist was simply ‘playing dead’ in the hopes that the narrator would get bored and flit off as if he had better things to be doing. 

the narrator almost chuckled at the notion. he would not break that easily. 

“look, stanley - i will be straight with you. i’m not going to stop pestering you until you leave that office. i really do have a surprise for you, something new - i really think you’ll love it! but you’re going to have to move in order to actually enjoy it.” a small prick of anxiety made itself known within the narrator. even when stanley didn’t cooperate, he would always move eventually. there had never been a time that the narrator was unable to motivate stanley to move eventually, either by persuasion, reverse psychology, or brute force annoyance. 

yes, he was sure of it. stanley had never stopped moving for more than an hour or so, and even on this rare occasion, it was with some purpose or goal in mind. something in the narrator’s subconscious urged him to reassure this thought thoroughly. 

stanley sighed, sluggishly rolling his head so that an eye emerged from his pillow of arms. he blinked slowly at nothing. 

“erm… please?” it felt awfully silly to say, and the narrator decided right then that he didn’t particularly enjoy it. 

however, it seemed to convince stanley. he sighed, crawled out from under his desk and stretched out, using his chair for balance. 

“yes! i promise you will not-“ 

[i want to sleep.] stanley signed. he had an air of determination about him. though, the narrator wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen him without that hard-headed aura. 

“sleep? why on earth would you desire to exercise the most boring of human functions?” 

stanley paused for a moment to consider whether or not this even counted as ‘earth’ before deciding that topic was a can of worms he wasn’t ready to open. he also decided that pointing out that sleep could actually be fun and fascinating among a dozen other pleasant side effects probably wouldn’t be useful, considering who he was talking to. 

so instead, he signed [i’m tired.]

the narrator scoffed. “no, you’re not. that’s physically impossible; i didn’t even code natural fatigue into you to begin with.” 

stanley grimaced. he wasn’t sure how to respond to that, especially not with the newfound bitter taste in his mouth. 

“if you’re just bored of the content so far, then i just offered you a solution. the surprise, remember?” 

stanley ground his teeth slowly, weighing his options. the narrator was not understanding him. this was a kind of bone deep, all-consuming exhaustion that had been due for a long, long time. his body didn’t have to ache for his mind to feel like a wet paper bag stuck to a parking lot. he was simply at his limit. 

but, he also didn’t have a lot of options. 

[if i come with you, will you let me sleep afterwards?] stanley was unsure of how to explain himself. despite the justification for anger in his situation, he felt nervous more than anything. he was desperate - he’d take what he could get. 

“sure, you can take a nap after you see the surprise.” 

stanley pinched the bridge of his nose. [no. i mean a deep sleep.] 

there was a very loud, very brief moment of silence. “…for how long?” 

stanley almost laughed. if he hadn’t already been dealing with this crap for so long, he might not have believed that he was bargaining the number of hours he got to sleep with some ignorant prick in the ceiling. 

[a night’s sleep. like eight hours.]

the narrator whistled, and stanley swore he heard the gentle shift of a rolling chair on the floor. “eight hours? that’s quite a lot, stanley. i’m not sure if i can swing that.” 

stanley made no effort to hide the obvious irritation on his face. [yes you can. you’ve swung harder for much less.] 

“well, what am i supposed to do for eight hours? i don’t exactly have a surplus of protagonists laying around at my disposable. i assure you, if i did, i would have given up on you ages ago.” 

[thanks.] stanley rolled his eyes. 

“gratitude is not the appropriate response here, stanley. that was a dig at your insufferable nature and reckless attitude.” 

stanley might have signed something in response if his hands weren’t busy holding his head. he drug them down his face, groaning in frustration. [please, let’s just get this over with.] 

“wonderful!” the narrator clapped. “right this way, stanley.” a familiar yellow arrow appeared on the floor before stanley, snaking through a newly opened door. the smile in his voice was back. stanley wished he had something to smile about too. 

“you won’t regret this. i made this just for you, you know.” the narrator continued to hype up the surprise stanley tried not to get his hopes up about. knowing the narrator, it was probably something underwhelming and useless, like another mostly infinite hole or a new closet. 

stanley followed the adventure line in no hurry. he allowed himself to fantasize about something beautiful and gratifying. the narrator occasionally rattled on about all the effort that went into this spectacular mystery gift, and how brilliant it was, and how ecstatic stanley would be upon seeing it. 

stanley imagined a stretching, open field surrounded by a horizon of trees and distant green hills. wind tickled his ears and sunshine kissed his face as he walked in the direction of his choice. no limits, no rules, no voice. 

the sluggish pace he progressed at did not escape the narrator’s notice. it either meant he was simply savoring every delicious moment of suspense or he wasn’t excited about his surprise, and something inclined the narrator to believe it was the latter. 

yes, upon closer inspection, stanley didn’t look happy at all. it then struck the narrator quite suddenly that stanley’s claims of tiredness from earlier were starkly evident on his features. he really did look exhausted. 

the narrator contemplated his surprise. perhaps the new closet he had cooked up would not please stanley as he had previously hoped. he knew stanley loved closets - there was no doubt about it, but he just didn’t seem to be in a closet exploring kind of mood. 

well, they were only paces from their destination now. the narrator had to act fast. 

“erm, hold on, stanley.” 

before stanley rose a brick wall, haphazardly slapped in last second. stanley took a step back, scratching his head. 

“let’s see… hold on, i just have to make a few minor adjustments. i realized my design wasn’t quite perfect and i really should present you with only the best.” the narrator hummed absentmindedly as he hastily constructed a new room in the closet’s place, digging through assets and arranging everything just so. 

stanley yawned slowly, unaffected. 

“right… there we go! sorry about that, right this way.” the narrator lowered the brick wall once more, and stanley followed the adventure line down to the end of a forgettable hallway. the door at the end was a deep green. stanley had to admit, the new splash of color was easy on the eyes. 

“well, what are you waiting for? go on,” the narrator urged stanley inside, anxious to see his reaction. stanley sighed, mentally preparing himself for disappointment. he twisted the knob and stepped inside. 

“oh, isn’t it just beautiful?” the narrator said dreamily. 

stanley had to pick his jaw off the floor. it… really was beautiful. he found himself in an expansive greenhouse surrounded by big leafy plants and frosted glass panes on every side. the floor was laid with swirling patterns in red brick and white stones. 

what caught stanley’s eye the most, however, was the enormous bed in the center of the greenhouse. a circular sheer curtain shrouded the bed in a hazy green. stanley was moving towards it before he could think.

“look, i’ve thought about what you said, and i think perhaps… i haven’t been the most accommodating. let me make it up to you.” the sheer curtain rolled back before stanley’s eyes, and he realized the comforter was fashioned to look like a lush moss carpet. he reached out and pet the fluffy surface, unable to believe what he was seeing. it felt marvelous. 

“you can have eight hours in here. oh, and i almost forgot-“ stanley only realized it had been silent when suddenly the sound of rain on the roof swelled around him. he looked at the foggy windows to see the color of the sky had darkened to a pleasant dusty purple. 

“there we go! perfect sleeping conditions. now, wasn’t that surprise worth it?” the narrator waited for stanley to move. he just stayed there frozen, his hand in the shaggy fluff of the comforter. 

“…stanley?” this was unusual. something about the situation inspired a prick of anxiety within the narrator. 

but sure enough, stanley’s taut shoulders softened, his hand retracting from the blanket. he looked around the greenhouse slowly, letting his eyes snag on every little detail among the abundant plant life.

had the narrator really created all of this just for him? just for this occasion? stanley gulped, inhaling deeply. the air felt richer and damper. his eyes stung. 

he didn’t bother signing. he unbuckled his belt, pushing off his slacks, and unbuttoned his shirt enough to pull it over his head and throw it unceremoniously to the floor. then he dove under the covers, eagerly wrapping himself up in the heavenly softness of the comforter. 

the narrator sputtered quietly at the sudden display, clearing his throat. he supposed that was a yes. “well, i suppose i should leave you to it, now.” he said rather awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed. 

stanley’s eyes washed over the ceiling, watching the rain patter and roll on the glass above him. he finally worked up the determination to pull his arms out from under the covers once more in order to sign. [what are you going to do?] he asked out of curiosity more than anything. 

the narrator hadn’t expected stanley to say anything after all. to be perfectly honest, he didn’t have a clue. and in the vein of honestly, he didn’t particularly want to leave. he had just put this place together; it would only make sense to stay and admire it. just a bit longer. 

[are you there?] stanley signed after a moment. the narrator realized he had not responded. “ah, yes, of course. uhm… i was actually just contemplating that. i think i rather like this place, and i’m not particularly anxious to leave yet - if that’s quite alright with you.” 

a small smile grew on stanley’s face. the narrator studied it closely. [it’s very nice. thank you.] as if to prove his point, stanley gathered up the bunched up comforter in his arms and snuggled beneath it. the narrator studied this closely as well. stanley looked so… content. he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about that. 

“you’re very welcome, stanley.” he smiled despite himself. maybe stanley would finally understand that the narrator had his best interest in mind after this. yes, surely he would take a lesson from this.

somehow, watching stanley burrow into the cozy cocoon of his blanket made the narrator feel inclined to keep those sentiments to himself for now. 

several moments passed by, and stanley’s eyes had closed, the rise and fall of his chest slowing. the narrator had to admit, the sound of the rain was quite relaxing. he knew if stanley wasn’t asleep by now it was only a matter of time, and then it would be eight hours of nothing. 

perhaps the narrator would leave at some point to work on new areas or flesh out his story. but until then, he found that he wasn’t bored. quite the opposite, really. watching stanley sleep was fascinating. seeing him at peace was a rare thing. 

maybe the narrator had been too harsh on him. what good is a protagonist who’s sick of his own story? the narrator toyed with the idea of allowing stanley to visit this place regularly. it could be good for morale, and give the narrator ample time to perfect his new ideas. yes, he would certainly consider it. 

until then, stanley was fast asleep, and the narrator suddenly had no one to talk to. he’d never understood the appeal of sleep, as it just eats up valuable time, but seeing stanley in this state inspired curiosity in the narrator. it looked cozy. he found himself wondering what that might feel like. 

these thoughts would zip through the narrator’s mind as he flitted around his maps, making improvements to his plots here and there. eight hours would pass slowly and quietly, and the narrator found that his pondering kept the inherit bore of it all at bay. 

[elliemarchetti]

The Snake and The Wolf

Chapter 1 - Heir

@erisweek2023 I know I'm late and I'm so sorry for it. I really have no excuse, just the hope you'll still be able to include this in day 2's masterlist.

Prologue

Words: 1.298

A cold rain fell uninterrupted for two days straight, causing temperatures to drop on the northern border. Fallen leaves carpeted the streets of the village, and the river was now a silver serpent half hiding in the hanging fog, but Eris knew his informant would show up in time for their appointment. She always did, without exceptions. The meeting point, the blacksmith shop, was located on the easternmost road, the familiar stone walls thick enough to muffle the sound of the hammer hitting the iron and block any excerpt of conversation a passerby could overhear.

“General,” the owner of the business greeted him, rubbing his hands on the leather apron. Each Court boasted of being the possessor of the greatest forging techniques, but Eris, who tried every kind of weapon he could get his hands on, was sincerely convinced of the excellence of the Autumn Court workshops. After all, they were the only ones who controlled fire itself.

“How can we help you?” asked a female voice coming from the inside, her pale face reddened by the heat. She had long dark hair, like many inhabitants of the Night Court, but unlike the angry grunts they always sported, she had a wide smile painted on her full lips, which led people to trust her almost blindly. More often than expected, people considered kindness a sign of harmlessness, but Eris saw its potential even Under the Mountain, and although they were all very busy not to become the entertainment of the evening, he used that period to offer favours and promise protection, thus building an impeccable network of spies scattered through all Court. Beron had even complimented him on his cunning, and to say it didn’t happen often was an understatement. Obviously, he hadn’t braved the elements just in hope of receiving further praise from his father, the approval of the High Lord of Autumn something he no longer aspired to since the first lashes he received as punishment for not being horrible to Lucien, who at the time was little more than an infant. He would’ve reported something to the Small Council, to justify his absence from the Forest House, but they would’ve been half-truths and lies wisely woven to give the impression of knowing more than them. Not too much, though, or the most loyal Lords would’ve started to get suspicious. Honestly, he would’ve sold them all if it had served his purpose, but first he had to take care of a couple of matters, and Anthea sitting on the unstable stool in the shop was his means to solve at least part of them.

“Any news on my brother?” Eris asked as soon as the door closed behind him, trapping the smoke and the smell of sweat inside. As if the two guests hadn’t been present, the blacksmith returned to his chores, and the High Fae poured a glass of coppery liquid for her employer.

“Still far away, unfortunately. A real shame, if you ask me: his tips are much more useful than the change the Illyrians leave me,” she replied, leaning with her elbows on a small table with a worn wooden top.

“I’m not surprised,” Eris muttered, his eyebrows furrowing. He didn’t like the fact that Lucien worked for Rhysand, but if he was in the Courts, Eris was at least able to try to keep him safe, even if he hadn’t been much help the last time his little brother really needed him.

“Besides, those who spend a lot on wine tend to be more useful to me as a spy than as a maid,” the female went on, mischievous.

“Tell me that stupid bat let something slip from his large mouth at Rita’s,” Eris urged, the shadow of a grin spreading across his angular features, “it would brighten my day, and only the Cauldron knows how much it’s needed.”

“Not him,” denied Anthea, dampening his enthusiasm, “but someone very close. The High Lady is pregnant, and the child has wings.”

Eris’s eyes widened in shock. He hadn’t seen Feyre much, but he remembered her narrow hips and thin frame, the figure of someone who grew up malnourished. She wasn’t going to survive the birth, even with the best of healers constantly by her side. He wondered if Lucien knew, if he was ready to lose the girl for whom he betrayed his best friend, but he quickly put the thought aside. His brother was an adult, he made his own choices, and although he suffered too much for Eris’s liking, he also knew how to get back up on his feet, and certainly losing the High Lady wasn’t about to give him the final blow.

“Do they intend to get rid of it?” he asked, cautiously. It wasn’t easy for the Fae, and many would’ve considered it sacrilege, given the difficulty with which new children were born, but it was possible.

Anthea shook her head, clearly disagreeing with the decision.

“I don’t intend to be in the proximity of the High Lord when he loses his other half, and you should make sure that whoever needs to leave the Night Court does it in time, or he may vent his anger with a cruelty we cannot even imagine,” she warned him.

One face immediately sprang to his mind, the elegant high cheekbones and the unwavering determination in her eyes, but she wasn’t the only one in danger of ending up chained somewhere in the Hewn City. Eris knew that the Night Court’s true centre of power wasn’t the place that inspired Amarantha in the construction of her gloomy home, but he suspected that the Shadowsinger conducted his most imaginative interrogations there, in a hole forgotten by the Mother herself.

“It will be done,” Eris agreed, “and you’ll have your place here, where you can choose what life you want to lead, as promised.”

“You haven’t heard the rest yet, though,” she teased him, a light of amusement illuminating her violet eyes. If the heir of a High Lord could’ve afforded to have friends, she certainly would’ve been one.

“The eldest of the sisters brought the myth of the Valkyries back to life along with some priestesses and an Illyrian,” revealed Anthea, and Eris was sure his heart skipped a beat. The Valkyries died because of the Illyrians’ cowardice and he was certain that history would soon repeat itself, with the impending war against a Death-God.

“Do you think that’s a good thing?” Eris asked, trying to push aside his worries.

“It might or might not, it all depends on the girls’ willpower. It could also do good to your brother’s Mate, even if the Spymaster already hangs around her for too much for my taste.”

“I hope there were no accidents,” he replied, serious. Many things could’ve happened if Azriel hadn’t simply been nice to Elain, but that was a possibility he didn’t want to ponder at the moment.

“Is the Morrigan still in Vallahan?” he asked instead, moving on to gathering information that would interest his father.

Anthea nodded: “She’s struggling to find a way to convince them to sign the new treaty.”

Eris almost rolled his eyes. She wasn’t cut out to rule, much less to negotiate or dominate the battlefield, and although what she did had cost him dearly, he was grateful that she’d offered herself to the brute to break their engagement. In time, he would’ve felt nothing but resentment towards her.

“Very good, if that’s all…” Eris began, but before he could get up the female grabbed his wrist.

“They spend many nights together, but everyone sleeps in their own rooms,” she concluded, gravely.

“For now, that’s fine,” he cut short, placing seven gold marks on the table. “I hope that’s enough for you until next time.”

[alubear-makes]

Made this for @rwyverna for chapter 1 their fic Schrödinger's Cat! I am SO HAPPY that they're posting it! (Poor ingo tho ksnsjdnd)

The fic is AMAZING and i love it so much

Check it ouuuttt!! (Heed the tags and warnings though its intense!)

[e77y]

hey there! just wanted to say I love your writing very much, and you seem like a very kind, genuine person. I’m currently studying English (creative writing) at university, as well, and I so admire your writing style. Silver Linings is, to me, a masterclass in character study, and I’m utterly obsessed with it. I hope you have a lovely day! I’d be thrilled to talk with you more, if you ever want to. My messages and inbox are open! :D

This is so sweet omg :') !!! So glad you enjoy my writing. I LOVE writing character studies and want to do a lot more in the future ^_^

My major is less on the literature side of things and more about tech comm, but creative writing is definitely where my heart is at! Wish I had gotten to major in it, too lol. I haven't taken any creative writing classes, actually, so fanfic is my main outlet for that at the moment :D

PS: I'm still kind of Tumblr newbie, so idk if it's common practice to post these kinds of asks or not? T_T Lmk if you want it taken down and I will ofc. But thank you so much for the kind message! And my DMs/inbox are always open, too :3

[eluxcastar]

I just realised my last post was plagued by the very obvious discrepancy of me realising the previous Knave was a woman halfway through writing it because I started it before Arlecchino's little sisterfication but finished it after it, so in the middle of it, you can see me start calling her Arlecchino's mother instead of her father 💀 that is to say I fixed it and I'm sorry for the confusion this is why beta readers are important don't be like me

[sourapplesauces]

yaaaaaaaay finished the first page ;-;

[imaginethathaikyuu]

12,000 word akaashi fic and ive only written the second part of it

this might have to be posted in parts💔

[reploidbuddy]

You ever get that feeling where you itch about posting a new fic but you’re not that far into it and you don’t want to leave your readers hanging because of your slowness so you keep the few chapters you got tucked in but it also makes you go crazy?

Extra strong when you're like me aka the type of writer to finish everything before posting.