Ok, Change Of Plans. Turns Out I Have So Many Ideas For Npcs That It's Overwhelming. I've Been Sitting

Ok, change of plans. Turns out I have so many ideas for npcs that it's overwhelming. I've been sitting in the sam spot for the last half an hour, not able to do anything XD So Imma go write.

Hey guys, if anybody cares, writing is postponed for now. I need to become a dungeon master as quickly as I can, so...that'll be the project I'll be working on rn. Thanks for understanding :D

What able bodied authors think I, an amputee and a wheelchair user, would want in a scifi setting:

Tech that can regenerate my old meat legs.

Robot legs that work just like meat legs and are functionally just meat legs but robot

Literally anything that would mean I don't have to use a wheelchair.

If I do need to use a wheelchair, make it fly or able to "walk me" upstairs

What I actually want:

Prosthetic covers that can change colour because I'm too indecisive to pick one colour/pattern for the next 5+ years.

A leg that I can turn off (seriously, my above knee prosthetic has no off switch... just... why?)

A leg that won't have to get refitted every time I gain or loose weight.

A wheelchair that I can teleport to me and legs I can teleport away when I'm too tierd to keep walking. And vice versa.

In that same vein, legs I can teleport on instead of having to fiddle around with the sockets for half an hour.

Prosthetic feet that don't require me to wear shoes. F*ck shoes.

Actually accessible architecture, which means when I do want to use my wheelchair, it's not an issue.

Prosthetic legs with dragon-claw feet instead of boring human feet or just digigrade prosthetics that are just as functional as normal human-shaped ones.

A manual wheelchair with the option to lift my seat up like those scissor-lift things so I'm not eye-level with everyone's butt on public transport/so I can reach the top shelf by myself.

A prosthetic foot that lights up when it hits the ground like those children's shoes.

Lester Sinclair x southern!reader arguing over roadkill

Lester and Y/N driving around late at night collecting roadkill for disposal

Lester: It's fresh! Why can't we eat it?!"

Y/N: Oh- my god, so many reasons. Larvae, germs, viruses, we don't know what else has picked at it! What if it had rabies? Opossum don't just run onto highways!

Lester: ...Why you know so much 'bout possum? Y/N: Because they are precious hell creatures of the night and I adore them. *gives Lester a creepy smile*

Lester: ... *eyes Y/N* yeah let's call it a night, you're creepy when you're tired.

Y/N laughs and lays against Lester to take a nap.

AN: Why did I write fluff for the ratman redneck.

Omgggg, thank you for the tag! (I promise I'll catch up on all the mash fics, I'm just slow 😭)

Last song: Bitch boy - The Oozes

Favourite colour: Black, red, brown, green...I'm not picky XD

Currently watching: Black mirror, South park

Last movie: House of wax (😌)

Currently reading: Journey to the center of the Earth by Jules Verne

Sweet/spicy/savoury: Savoury

Relationship status: single

Current obsession: Time zones, horror movies and fandoms (the 'tism is 'tisming)

Last thing I googled: bus schedules

Currently working on: an Abe Sapien x reader fanfic

Tags <3: @tivair (I see you in my notes all the time on my second blog and it always warms my heart), @ajokeformur-ray (I follow your main AND your house of wax blog and I just admire you so much, you have no idea, I love seeing your posts on my dash), @hinataashoyos (I lovelovelovelovelovelove your fanfics, I know I never even sent an ask to you, but you are so amazing and talented and I gobble up your Tsu'tey fanfics), @monsterfloofs (you have one of the best ocs I have ever seen and I love everything that you write and draw omggggg, I haven't checked out your blog in so long but still, I love everything you do)

9 people you'd like to get to know better ♡

thank you for the tags @honeybrowne and @soft-persephone <333

last song: come june by mitch rowlanddddddd

favourite colour: black

currently watching: bones

last movie: barbie

currently reading: fanfiction as always lmao

sweet/spicy/savory: spicy

relationship status: 💍

current obsession: anything oscar issac, the bear fx

last thing i googled: english to galician translator (iykyk)

currently working on: enemies to lover with marc, summer blurbs, 4k/kinktober celebration, ch 4. of the bee & the bear

no pressure tags: @juneknight @marc-spectorr @campingwiththecharmings @missdictatorme @xbellaxcarolinax @cptn-nash @haylzcyon @pedrito-friskito @greg-montgomery @masterwords @lesbianhotch @hotch-girl @fightingdragonswithwho @whatthefishh @ivystoryweaver @flightlessangelwings

A Celebration For Two

(This is so self-indulgent buuuuuut it's my birthday and I reserve that right.

This is my first character x reader fic; hopefully it will at least tolerable. Comments are welcome of course

Update: Now with a sequel Things Better Unshared)

Erik had witnessed a number of celebrations for the date of others birth and never quite cared much for or about them, though it was hard to be certain whether this stemmed from his general disinterest in most people or a deep seated jealousy that they both knew and could celebrate their birthdays. It could easily be a mixture of both knowing him. But he had never before felt this sort of outright irritation and frustration seeing others gather for an, admittedly small, celebration.

It had to be for you though that such emotions could be pulled out. Not since Christine had simply watching someone interact with others elicit such jealousy from him but as he saw the other actors and dancers move about, wishing you a happy birthday, handing you small gifts and flowers and cards and smiling at you, he felt himself twitch with impatience, thinking of how he wished he could just rush down from the rafters to grab you, steal you away into the darkness and keep you all to himself. He had to hold back a growl as he saw one man, one of the many extras, no name, no talent, no use but who had the incredible audacity to actually smile at you, actually touch your hand and damnit if you didn't smile back, even if it was the light professional one that you knew to wear on stage. Not your real one, not that one that could light up a room and made his heart shudder just to think of, so warm, so kind, so his. But still you deigned to give a smile to this cretin who didn't know his left foot from his right and couldn't sing for anything; all of your smiles should be Erik's, he reasoned, he could play melodies that you had told him could bring the stars from the sky and make a soul float beyond heaven itself, and you always seemed happy to smile for him whenever you were alone. Even if it wasn't the smile he loved most from you, every smile should be for him, he hated to see you give one to any singular other person; upon the stage when it was directed at none was acceptable because then it could just be his still, but this wasn't.

He didn't blame you of course though, never you. The man handed you something, some small bouquet of flowers and you deigned to thank him, causing Erik to snort. A pitiful gift, certainly not worth one of your smiles, even a lesser one. His would outshine it entirely he was certain and after realizing you were on the move again he quickly followed from his hiding space within the rafters; he knew where you would be going, of course he knew and of course it would be there. He would need to move fast to get there first.

You somehow managed to sneak away from prying eyes and entered the side room, hidden away from all others, the only privacy easy for you to find. Christine had had a dressing room but you did not as you were still just one of the chorus, though not for lack of wish on Erik's part to make you more. Still having heard the stories of before, of what had happened and how it happened, you managed to convince him that trying to push you onto center stage was not a good idea, not to repeat the mistakes of the past but simply let things be; he agreed only as long as he got to hear you sing for him, as long as he still got to teach you even if you would usually gently admonish him when he got too intense about it. Something in that made him strangely happy, to be treated with both care and sternness by you; you were not afraid of him so much as you kept a cautious attitude towards his moods and would usually try gentle redirection before sometimes having to tell him off more sternly.

As you entered and closed the door you quickly felt your wrist be grabbed by the strangely strong grip of Erik. For a skeleton of a man who lived and thrived in shadows he was strong and such a touch always made you shiver even just a bit; to see it always made Erik smile and it was no different this time. You nearly dropped the flowers, a small defeat in his mind but one he was willing to let slide for now, and you looked up at him with wide eyes. “Erik...”

“Come,” he said and realized his tone came out equal parts desperate and short; he chewed his ruined lip and seeing this you placed your other hand over his with that smile, that beautiful warm smile, the one that made his heart flutter.

“Lead the way Erik.” Oh how much it pleased him when you said that name. He choose it himself, you knew that in the same way you knew so much more about him; in the darkness of the night, when you'd come to his lair and simply sit with him, he'd tell you stories to fascinate and amaze you, and with rapt attention you'd listen. And eventually those stories had turned to his life almost without him noticing and he had nearly broken down into tears once he did. But you, kind soul as you were to him, you had let him tell you in his own time and told him it wouldn't change a thing. He was still the fascinating and wondrous phantom in the walls, the protector of the opera, the man whose voice and music could bring tears to the eyes of the stoniest of hearts, and forever would he be to you that and so much more. And so he'd told you the truth, of what he had done to Christine, of what he had been, of the blood on his hands and the darkness in his past and heart, and you had listened and you listened and you listened some more. He knew he loved you when you had cried for him in the end and told him you were sorry for the things he had suffered, the pain and the anguish, and that you understood at least a little now of what made him the way he was. He knew but it had already been too late by the time he had started the tales.

Down, down, down into the darkness and the depths of the operahouse and before either of you knew it you were within familiar surroundings, that house of his rebuilt from the disaster before. Candlelight lit the sitting room and you took in a deep breath of the scent of roses and paper; sheets of music all around was scattered and you felt the urge to twirl in the room as you did every time he brought you here.

“Close your eyes.” He tried to hide all the emotions he was feelings, tamper them down and focus on now. You obeyed, the amount of trust you having in your dear phantom filling him with utter ecstasy every time and he had to resist the urge to giggle. He did not resist the urge to take the flowers from you and discard them none so gently elsewhere, they were unnecessary and unsuitable to someone like you; you deserved a crown of roses, of the most beautiful flowers and still they would not compare to the beauty of your soul he was certain.

Quickly he moved and tried to bring together all he had done. He had never done this before, not for his only friends the Daroga and Madame Giry and her daughter Meg, nor for the Shah he had once served or the sultana he had tried once to impress. Not even for Christine he had realized at some point, though not for lack of care or wanting to; he had simply not been ready to, too scared and uncertain, too weak to pull together to make such a spectacle. But you wouldn't dismiss his efforts surely, you wouldn't turn to another man despite it or make him think it was too much; rather he almost felt it was too little as he completed his preparations and with shaking voice told you to open your eyes again, wringing talented fingers together and once more chewing his lip as he watched you, waiting, hoping.

You opened your eyes and gasped. A hundred of your favorite flowers, arranged perfectly and making you wonder how he found so many to begin with. Beside them was a dress, beautifully tailored in silk and lace and you knew without trying it on that it would fit you without a doubt.

“I choose the color because I was certain it would match your eyes,” he said with all the confidence of a child, his eyes wide as he stared at you, “And I thought this sort of design would accentuate your body all the more, t-tastefully of course my dear songbird.”

“Oh Erik,” you said hands to your mouth.

“I-I also wrote you a song,” he said finding his nerve failing him and his fingers tapped air and each other, a nervous twitch that showed at times, “If I may I would like to-”

He found his words cut off by you moving to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him. It always startled him when you did, though it pleased him to no end nevertheless; the first time you'd willingly kissed him he'd nearly collapsed into tears, begging to know how he deserved such a thing. He still teared up every time it happened and now was no exception, allowing you to wipe away a tear from his eye, gently brushing your fingers over the deformed side of his face as you smiled.

“Sweet man, however could I ever thank you for such a beautiful gift?” His heart swelled and thumped in his chest, “You know I would love to hear you play, I always love it when you play for me but I wish I had a way to repay you for such wonderful things.”

“You repay me every day with your smile and your love, my songbird,” he said and leaned his face into your hand, appreciated and savored the warmth of your touch, of your love, even while wondering how he still deserved it, “You give me so much and this is but a small repayment on my part for all you do for me.”

“Still such hard work on your part, it makes my own gift seem so small.” Erik felt confused but you pulled away, leaving him then also feeling saddened by the lack of contact between you. He whined, just a little one, but the usual smile you would give when he did so did not come. You were far too focused on reaching into the small bag you usually kept at your side, in which he knew you often kept all sorts of things as necessary throughout the day.

Tonight you pulled out what seemed to be a long crimson knitted scarf. No not knitted, crocheted, and he recognized it as something he had seen you work on some nights as he had composed at his organ or rested his head in your lap in need of being close to you. The image of you working on it with your nimble fingers, the softness of your voice as you had hummed absentedly, it had been so terribly domestic it left him in awe every time. Now you held it out to him and he could see that initials had been knitted in: ED. Erik Destler, the name he had chosen for himself, the name he had claimed as his and that he loved to hear you say in that melodious voice of yours. His name. It had his name.

“A gift for Erik, on his songbird's birthday?” He could not help but slip into third person, his emotions starting to surge within him again.

You smiled and placed it gently around his neck. “You don't know what yours is and I thought, it would be nicer to share with you than simply have you celebrate me when I can't rightfully do the same for you.”

You pulled one end around his neck and he convinced himself that he was wrapped in your scent because you had made it. Surely that was true and even if not, this had still been touched by you, made by you, had to have a little bit of your soul embedded in it. And better yet you made it for him, for Erik, and you wanted to celebrate him, you wanted to share your birthday, your special day, with him!

He immediately started to tear up again and his lip quivered in that sad way it did. “You would share your birthday with Erik, you would want to do that for him? You made him a scarf, just for him, because you...you care...”

“Oh Erik, of course I care,” you said and leaned up to kiss his cheeks; there were far too many tears to wipe or kiss away, but you couldn't help but think how adorable your phantom was when he was like this.

You knew how to make the dam of emotions break and you knew exactly what to make him completely break down for you. “I know you likely have never heard this but I just wanted to say: I'm glad you were born, I'm glad you lived this long so we could meet but most of all that you came into this world so I could love you. Happy birthday Erik.”

And oh how that dam broke but to you there was no better gift than to know you had made the phantom, no, the man you loved so dearly so happy in kind. He was taller and stronger than you but you held him as he cried and thanked you for something so simple as a scarf and some words, nowhere near as grand as what he had made for you for your birthday. But you supposed this would have to be enough; you'd just need to plan better and more for next year.

“Happy birthday songbird, Erik is happy you were born as well, Erik is so very thankful that you were born and able to be here and with him and love him even despite his mistakes and his flaws and his deformities.” His words were delivered quickly and frantically but you knew they carried every bit of his truth.

And that, in your mind, was the best gift of all: knowing you were loved and could be here to love such an adorable and emotional man.

Things Better Unshared

(A follow-up to A Celebration for Two partially because so many people seemed to have liked it and partially because I happen to have had one of those days. And yes what is described in this story is how I suffer through migraines, which I get on occasion (I am a chronic headache sufferer though). My friend Ash, may her soul rot in the shared POTO hell we are destined for, technically gave me this plot bunny when I told her about my migraine today so hope you guys at least enjoy)

Erik was 1000% certain that you were angry at him or something and thus already rehearsing a thousand different apologies, with flowers and music and begging and crying. Actually he was already crying because again he was more than absolutely certain that you were very much angry at him.

Admittedly he was not sure why you would be mad at him though. He had not killed anyone recently, or honestly at all in the time since you told him you loved him to now and he had sort of wanted to, especially when it came to those guys who sometimes talked to you and especially that one who had actually tried to ask you out and that was certainly not acceptable in any way. But he had held himself back, remembering how murder was one of Those Things that had made Christine run from him and that you had indeed told him that you did not want him hurting anyone. What helped him to remember and internalize it was that you had voiced it as a worry that he would be hurt or taken away from you if he did anything like murder someone again and thus made it into how much you cared about him, and Erik could never bring himself to do something that could upset someone who was willing to say they loved him. He also had been holding back his wish to make you a star and trying to convince you to that effect, and he'd behaved himself with the operahouse managers and he'd even tried to do nice things for them like fix up broken props and ripped costumes. He'd loved listening to you giggle as you had recounted to him how the other performers were convinced they had some sort of guardian angel running around, a nice change from the story of the Phantom; he didn't care about their thoughts and feelings about the situation as much as he loved to know you were happy about it. And actually he was also certain you had been happy just the night before, kissing him gently goodbye before having to return to your usual days in the choir.

Yet he knew you had to be angry at him because why else would you be acting so strange? You were listless and not really talking to anyone, grimacing and holding your hands over your ears as if hating the sound of music that as always filled the operahouse. He'd only been doing his usual thing, watching over you when you couldn't physically be together, and had been looking forward to watching rehearsals, but you had this strange unhappy look on your face and he was certain it was because something was wrong and of course to his mind the only thing that came to him was that you were upset with him and thus he needed to figure out how to fix things. He couldn't bear to have you upset and now he just had to wait until everyone else left and you were alone so he could try to see if he could get to you. You'd already snapped at a few people who tried to bother you though and Erik was now just fiddling with everything he could get his hands on, his cape, some rope, a broken piece of furniture, his scarf, feeling more and more anxious.

It all came to a head as some lights went on and you practically winced, turning away. But not fast enough for your angel, attentive as he was, saw the tears in your eyes and his heart fell like a ton of stones into his stomach. He watched you slip away into a room, getting away from everyone and everything as if to flee, and finally he decided enough was enough. Quickly he made his way there, slipping through passages and hidden ways, through an opening in the wall of that room to grab you.

You flinched, you never flinched with him, and his heart raced to think he might have hurt you, but you looked at him, squinting and then buried your face in his chest. His mind raced but you whimpered and in a small voice, weak and unsteady, spoke, “It hurts so much...”

You were in pain? Physical pain? He didn't understand at first but you clung to him and he instinctively wrapped his cape around you, holding you and feeling all the more panicked.

“What hurts?” He felt so confused; he had been so sure you were.

“It's too loud, too bright, please.” You pleaded, in that sad trembling voice. And Erik, Erik never could reject a request, not from you.

It was easy enough for him to bundle you up and carry you away; walking corpse he might be, he was still strong and you fit so easily in his arms. If the surface was too loud, too bright, too anything, then he would just take you back to his home, to the darkness, to the quiet. He had no hesitation, especially as your arms looped around his neck and held onto him and lord did that make Erik want to know what was so wrong so much faster.

He did his best to bring you back though the rowing of the boat was made a little harder by the fact that you still didn't let go even in the boat. But at the same time he wouldn't complain; you were close to him, you were there in his arms, how could he possibly complain when you were right where he loved to have you so much. And you didn't seem to be angry or upset with him at all but he still didn't know what was wrong and that was somehow even worse because you said it hurt and that things were too much and he hated seeing you in pain, not to mention cry because of it.

The dim lighting of candles and the silent peace of his home by the lake seemed to bring you some peace though still you held to him. He carried you inside and took you to the bed, the easiest to keep holding you; that was what he wanted, that's what you seemed to want, and he curled around you somewhat awkwardly. He wasn't used to being the big spoon, he wasn't used to being the comforter instead of the comfortee; he still didn't know what was wrong and that was starting to make him feel panicked the longer you were silent and clinging so tight.

“Erik's sorry, please tell us how we can help,” he half whined, having brought you this far but having no idea what to do was starting to lose himself to his usual concerns, “Songbird, please, you're worrying Erik, please.”

“My head....”

“Your head?”

“It hurts so much, Erik, it feels like a needle in my eye, like sharpness in my skull, radiating back and forth and back and forth but only part of me, only part of my skull.” Your voice was small, so small, smaller than you, smaller than anything. “I can't focus, I can't see, and everything just makes it worse: the light, the sounds, movement, eating, I can't think about anything but how much it hurts. It all just compounds and makes it throb more.”

Oh. He realized, recognizing what you meant. “Do you see lights, ones that are not truly there, whether after looking at light for a second or simply out of nowhere?”

You nodded without word. He bit a swollen lip. “Then it must be hemicrania, migraine. Erik too has suffered such; the pain is....”

Impossible to truly describe, he knew that well. To think you too were undergoing such pain, unexpected, unwanted, unfair; he could not remember days in which he had one, for the pain took most memory and reality with it, leaving only the haze of existence and the depths of emotional and physical voidness. But he could remember pain, sharp, centralized at first before moving along the divide of his head; for him it was always the right side, the same as his deformity, and maybe it was connected but it never truly mattered. The pain was what did and your pain, that you too had to feel it, was what he cared about.

You whimpered again, a meek sound more suited to a child than the beautiful soul you were to him but he held you close and did what he had always wished someone had done for him in such a state: he covered your head in his cape, kissed you upon the head and spoke in the softest whisper he could muster, “You will be alright, songbird, I promise you.”

“I just want to sleep,” you mumbled.

“Then sleep you shall.”

“I should eat though.”

“Are you hungry?” You shook your head; he was not surprised. Appetite seemed to flee from the pain of the half skull. “Then do not force yourself. Rest; I will blow out all the candles and you will slumber and once you feel hungry then I will make sure to bring you all the best things to help you recover but it would worry me all the more if you had to suffer what happens when you force yourself to eat when your mind is such pain.” Though he'd be ready to hold your hair back and gently rub your back, wipe away your tears and give you water to clear the taste from your mouth. Still he never wished that suffering on you, any of this.

“Erik....” You clung tighter and he kissed you again. How strange it felt to be the one to give the gentle kisses, the love, the care; normally you were the one to comfort him and he had been so prepared to cry and beg your forgiveness before but now he knew what was really going on and all he wanted was to hold you and take all your pain away.

He took off his cape to keep you covered but found it hard to get you to let go of him. Normally he would have been delighted by this, he was before, but in light of what was going on.... “Songbird, sweet love, I need to get up.”

“Please don't leave me, it hurts so much.” You sounded like you were on the verge of tears again and how he hated it, loathed your pain.

It was his turn to whimper, because he was nothing if not weak to you and your pleas, but he had to be strong to some degree and he kissed away your tears. “My beloved songbird, I promise I will return as quick as I can, but I need to darken the room for you, all for you I promise. That way you needn't hide under my cape while you rest.”

Another whine from you but he did manage to break free enough to get up. You curled into a ball, a sad weak ball, and he was quick to move, snuffing out each candle, plunging the room into utter darkness. But he was used to darkness, he had lived in it for years, and to him you were like a beacon in the night anyway; he would always find his way back to your side. He settled into bed beside you again and pulled you close, stroking your hair as you clung once more to him. In the darkness all that could be heard was breathing, yours slightly labored as your body had a hard time adjusting to the pain; he started to hum, softly, careful of all sharp notes, careful of being too loud; it was even and gentle, a lullaby he made up on the fly. But slowly, surely you started to slip off into something resembling sleep and he knew this by the way your grip loosened, your breathing evened, you relaxed from tension you never even knew you'd been holding from the pain.

All the while the phantom held you, humming his slow warm melody, and wishing for all the world he could do more to make you, his beloved songbird, never feel such pain now or ever again.