memesinthenight | Fiction Meme/Kink Meme

Fiction Meme/Kink Meme

FICTION MEME / KINK MEME

Remember all those old kink memes in fandom yore? I hope you do, I really hope I'm not the only one who remembers that, that'd be sad. But! If you missed the trend, it basically goes like this:

1. Anonymously post a prompt between two characters in game. It doesn't have to be your character; just any duo (or more!) you think might be neat to see something on. For example:

Anon: Hey! I've been dying to see some fluff between the Postmaster General and the Librarian! Anything goes, I just want to see them be soft together.

2. Check around and see what others post.

3. Respond! Write a drabble, draw a picture, man, compose a poem, idk how you live your lives. But remember, responses make this whole thing work, so step out of your comfort zone!

4. Be respectful. Anon's on temporarily, but please don't abuse it, or it won't happen again. Keep negative comments to yourself.

5. Tag anything that needs to be tagged!

6. If you need anymore examples, by all means.

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But can someone please write some fluff of the postmaster general and the librarian?

Let's get some cross fandom shipping up in this bitch!

SECONDING

Anyone, everyone

thirding cross canon ships

name some you cowards.

ALL OF THEM OK

I need some fluff between Aziraphale and Bucky. Definitely need more love between these two.

Aziraphale had been talking to both the Soldier and the Sergeant for months now, with all of that time having lived under the same roof, when he realized upon baking his fourth failed apple pie for Misty's Very Important American Thanksgiving Dinner, that he didn't know their birthday. He also didn't know their name, but after several failed attempts at trying to guess it, Aziraphale had all but given up on the endeavor.

Angels didn't have birthdays, and it would have been totally unnecessary to have celebrated six thousand of them anyway, but humans didn't live that long. Aziraphale had, of course, no idea that Human Soldier Person was well beyond the normal lifespan of a regular human, and though he hadn't celebrated for the last seventy or so of them, that if he were alive, he'd have easily another seventy to go. Even if he had known, two hundred years would still seem like such a short time to live, and such a shame not to celebrate.

He was busy pondering the ephemeral nature of humans and cake recipes when he finally smelled the smoke coming out from the oven, and grabbed a tea towel to swat at it as he quickly turned off the heat and let the door swing open.

--

Making American buttercream, as it turned out, was beyond simple. But a cake? Aziraphale stared at the flour-covered recipe book he'd borrowed out of the library as if it had offended him, his kind, and God Herself. After all, he'd meant to make three layers, and somehow one had come out with a completely uncooked top, one had spilled over its tin, and one had collapsed in the middle. He'd scraped off the burnt bits of the otherwise perfectly fine sponge, only to discover that he'd neglected to grease the pans.

Deflated, he started to scoop the cakes out into the bin, but thinking better of it, he sat down at his kitchen counter and took a snack break eating failed cake out of its tin before continuing a second round.

--

"Surprise!" exclaimed Crowley, who had jumped in through the threshold and threw his hands up in the air to reveal streamers, balloons, and a very neat banner reading "Happy Birthday!"

Behind him was a shocked Aziraphale, who had buttercream on his nose, and whose lopsided cake chose that moment to helpfully slop onto a bowl of tortilla chips, knocking it over and causing it to roll off the table and onto the carpet like a sad Rube Goldberg machine.

And in front of Crowley was Bucky Barnes, who'd forgotten his name was Bucky Barnes, or that his mother had called him James, who'd equally forgotten all his childhood birthday parties in early spring, and the year that he and his best friend had stuffed their faces with so much cake that they'd forgone further festivities to lie in the grass and regret their mistakes.

He unsuccessfully tried to politely hide his laughter behind a hand as he almost missed the hissed exchange of "I said three hours, Crowley!" and "It has been three hours, Angel!"

Upon seeing how fidgety and distressed Aziraphale was getting over the whole thing, Bucky gathered himself and with sincerity remarked, "Thanks, guys. You really didn't have to go through the trouble, but I appreciate it."

Bucky liked Aziraphale, who was terribly fussy and always making him laugh, though never intentionally. It had been a rough road, partially because Soldier had been scared of Aziraphale, but some time between over-the-top gestures and continually triggering his nostalgia by accident, their relationship had finally grown steady and comfortable.

He crossed the remainder of the room in three short strides. "Is that coffee cake?" he asked.

"You like coffee," came the response.

Without another thought, Bucky bent down to the ground to pluck out a candle that hadn't quite reached the floor, and stuck it into some of the remaining cake on the table. It made a very valiant attempt to stay still.

Bucky wasn't accustomed to people doing things just because he liked them, and was definitely not accustomed to people throwing birthday parties for him, surprise or otherwise. That was alright, because he's pretty sure that he had stopped having them way before the scientists, and not as another things on a long list of things they took from him.

He clapped a hand onto Aziraphale's arm to assure him that he'd done good. The gesture itself caused an increasingly common thread of irrational but unmistakable nostalgia. For some reason, whenever this happened, or merely as a result of Aziraphale being too tall for the kind of energy he projected, Bucky had always gotten the odd feeling that Aziraphale should be about a head shorter: the thought, like always, dissipated as soon as he tried chasing after it in his mind, sequestered to someplace he'd promised over and over again to unpack later.

Regardless, most of the time, he was just grateful to have a found family just as strange and confused as he was.

He asked, "wanna make a wish with me?"

ilu mystery writer

they're all strange and confused and it's marvelous

Having each been rebuffed by Will, the Will stans club leans on each other for emotional support.

riku/bruce, i'm a basic bitch who wanted their fight to end differently.

SO glad I'm not alone in this.

Give me your gore, beacon bits. Give me nastiness. Give me a fake explore that fucks up a character.

-> The Eleven/Elena/Wanda expedition goes way, way worse, because the Baubledook's prices are steep. Did you like seeing people, Eleven?

-> Coming back to life has consequences, as Crowley and Vanitas find out. Why them? Because they keep fucking pushing the limits and something's gonna push back.

-> Eliot runs out of alcohol

no i'm kidding Eliot goes into the woods and loses his magic abilities via losing his fingers :)

->And so on, please, I just want to see characters fucked up.

He’s always the one who pushes the limits. Part and partial to being a demon, of course. Destroying this, creating that, making this better or that worse. On Earth, it was all about pushing humans to build their own problems. Here in Beacon, it’s about pushing the limits of the town.

This means he’s died. You know, again. The first time, it was all surprise and unpleasantness. He woke up in the church, stunned to be alive. Unconsecrated ground, they said. Well, he had that going for him.

The second time, he couldn’t see the color red. This made styling his hair less pleasant. Just looking up at a puff of grey was annoying, and he couldn’t tell if he was aging.

The third time, horns started to pop out of his forehead. It gave away what the whole town already knew: Demon. A demon who kept dying because he was pretty stupid. Well, they all already knew that.

But he wasn’t about to give up. Every plan was more extravagant than the last, and he always knew he’d come back. Couldn’t be worse than growing horns, couldn’t be worse than the first, scary time he woke up in the church. What the hell else could he lose if he died?

He opens his eyes. Oh, right. Dropped the lantern in the water, this time. Whole thing went out. Supposed to be a simple flight, supposed to be a safe trip, but----something happened. The edges of his plan are a bit fuzzy, like there’s a big chunk of them just missing. What’s missing?

“Well, that didn’t go as planned, my dear,” a voice says to him. “It doesn’t look like you’ve gained anything unpleasant this time, maybe you’ve lost something else.”

He turns, looking at the man sitting next to him. He’s about Crowley’s corporation’s age, he supposes, with white hair, in a faded white suit. He has Crowley’s lantern in one hand and a book in the other. He looks like he’s been sitting and waiting. Waiting? Waiting for what? For Crowley to wake up?

“What?” Crowley asks, moving to a seated position.

“See, this is what I think,” the man says, leaning towards him. “It’s a pattern. You lose something, you gain something, then you lose again. It’s going to be a loss this time, I’m sure of it.”

His blue eyes are eager and open, almost excited. He leans towards Crowley in a friendly, conspiratory way, like this is some sort of grand game they’re both involved in.

“Loss?” Crowley says. “A loss of what?”

“Well, I don’t know,” the man says. “How do you feel? I brought a color wheel for you to take a look at. We could go over what you remember from modern European poetry, see if it strikes up a memory. I have heard that sometimes memory can be affected.”

Crowley’s reaction is immediate. “I don’t read poetry.”

The man’s brow furrows. “Now, my dear, we both know that isn’t true. You told me as much. Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone, lest that ruin your---” He gives a brief gesture towards Crowley’s self, “---rockabilly persona.”

“Rockabilly?” Who the hell calls anything rockabilly? Crowley moves to stand, but he feels a bit woozy and the man steps forward to catch him. Crowley jerks back from the touch. He doesn’t like to be touched at the best of times, much less by people he doesn’t know.

The man holds his hands up, and his eyebrows hit his hairline. “My dear, are you all right?”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Crowley snaps. “I’m a lot of things, mate, but I really don’t think I’m anyone’s dear.”

“Crowley,” the man says. Something that looks like realization flows onto his face and he takes a breath. “Crowley, tell me you know who I am.”

“Who are you?”

She brings him back.

She always does. Vanitas thinks, one of these days, he won't wake up. But resting would be a kindness, and Vanitas has never known kindness. What little breath of it he'd taken in had left long ago. Weeks? Months? Years? He's never kept track of the time in this place, and even the arrival of newcomers have come to bleed together.

He opens his eyes, then slams them shut again. They spill when he rolls over to sit up, like two overflowing cups. His eyes were yellow, but now they melt like molten gold. Vanitas lifts both hands to his face to catch the dripping remnants, and it covers the fingers of his good one, slipping through like sand. The other hand no longer holds it's shape. The last time he was taken apart and put back together, his arm hadn't come back right. It shifts in and out, sometimes whole, sometimes a black ooze, skin and muscle sleucing off and getting caught in his clothing, splattering on his boots. A macabre mockery of the way his Unversed peel off of his shadows. A twisted reminder of the thing he was before Sora had given him a face.

Carefully, he opens his eyes again, and the world is a kaleidoscope. The architecture around him drips. Vanitas can't see it clearly, because his eyes are no longer eyes. They drip down his cheeks like candles and he can taste them on the back of his tongue, copper or iron. He swallows it down, but the bloody taste remains.

This is okay.

He was never the same as anyone else. Vanitas has always been darkness, and this place is nothing but darkness. If she won't let him die, if she won't let him rest, then this is the next best thing. Beacon is taking him, piece by piece. Soon, this will be where he truly belongs.

He's learning, after all. Every time his lantern winks out, he understands a little bit better. Even now, he can hear them singing out there in the woods. A tone that nobody else can hear.

Rosalind/Javert, because quiet intimacy is wonderful sometimes

Peter + Hermione, local nerds use THE LIBRARY and SCIENCE to fight off a monster, or the Librarian in a tetchy mood

Noct and the Librarian have a bro-off. who can bro harder? Bro you're my whole world bro. Bro. Let's hug it out bro.

Just cute things with any of the Els

Invincible Game Night

or Let's Play DND, This Won't Go Wrong In Any Way

The dungeon master is Quentin Makepeace Coldwater.

Crowley plays the shit bard who won't stop with the stupid plans that get the whole party in trouble.

i like this idea

the first annual strip poker tournament: who wins? who loses? what sort of underwear was seen?

alternatively, monopoly. who wins, who tries to make alliances, whose friendships are eternally dead, and who flips the board half-way through

“Alright, everyone ready? Crowley, you didn’t forget your character sheet again, did you?” asks Quentin.

“No,” responds Aziraphale. “I have it in my folder instead.”

“Oh, great, then let’s start. Do we need a recap?” Quentin asks, readjusting some things behind his cardstock-backed DM screen, with a crayon-scribbled dragon on it courtesy of Mary.

“I think we all remember flubbing our stealth checks and nearly getting Eliot killed,” responds Elena, throwing her hand-made dice (Quentin) into a hand-made tray (Aziraphale) to test the luck of her dice today.

“Teddy,” Eliot clarifies. “Theodore Louis Alexander Williamson the Third,” he adds, as he strums a few practice chords on the ukulele he’d discovered one day at the general store. He thought it’d done well to add a little flavor to their adventure, and Quentin didn’t have the usual tools to put on a playlist.

“Can we count this as a long rest, by the way?” asks Riku. “Riku needs more HP.”

“I know you named your character after yourself,” says Elena. “But it’s weird that you call him your name.”

“Sure, do you all want a long rest?” asks Quentin. “Who’s patrolling?”

“I’ll take first shift,” Crowley answers. “Aziraphale, you wanna take second?” he volunteers, pouring him a cup of tea.

“Yes, of course, and it’s Wilhelm, dear,” Aziraphale says over his rustling of papers, taking notes, and rearranging things. “You said that last innkeeper’s name was… Ardor?”

“Adror,” responds Quentin. “And both of you roll for perception.”

“Roll your twenty and add one,” Aziraphale says, still fussing with his notes as Crowley mumbles a “yeah, yeah,” and doesn’t even complain when Aziraphale takes the D12 out of his hand and replaces it with a D20.

“Seventeen,” Crowley answers.

“Twenty,” Aziraphale says. “Not natural.”

“Crowley, nothing happens during your shift,” Quentin responds.

“Can I change my roll so that something can?” Crowley asks.

There’s an unamused chorus of “no” coming from all around him before Quentin can even open his mouth. He looks almost pleased about this.

“Aziraphale,” Quentin proceeds. “Since you have night vision, you see a caravan coming towards you. It looks ragged.”

“Oh, I wave them down and ask if they need any assistance,” Aziraphale says at once.

Elena groans. “Aziraphale, it’s probably the bandits from last time.”

Eliot watches Quentin’s face and confirms as he excitedly takes pieces out from behind his screen, “yeah, it’s definitely the bandits from last time.”

“All of you can choose to be woken up by the noise as the caravan pulls up in front of your camp and a familiar-looking dwarf hops out with a mean look on his face. ‘Give us yer gold,’” Quentin says, squinting one eye, leaning over, and pulling his best pirate impression. “‘Or prepare ta fight!’”

“Scoundrel!” Aziraphale exclaims in his chosen character voice. “We will not yield to you and your… two other men!”

“Uh, yeah,” Riku adds, dropping his voice half an octave as he remembers to put one on. “Stay back, ‘cause we don’t wanna hurt you.”

Eliot picks up the pace on his strumming, as Elena moves her piece on the board and grunts, giving herself an underbite. “Grar,” she says, with the tone of a dump statted intelligence. “We beat you like last time.”

“Don’t suppose you’d settle for just giving us gold instead and saving yourselves the trouble?” Eliot inquires in a nice lilt which is more melodic than his usual voice.

“‘Yer makin’ this easy’,” Quentin answers. “And I need all of you to roll for initiative.”

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Fiction Meme/Kink Meme

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Crowley experiences consequences

cw; eye stuff, death

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