#repeat and write this story

[queenburd]

These tags made me happy 😊😊

So I doodled him today. Stanley B my special boy, you WOULD sympathize with the Princess despite everything.

(For this curious, Stanley B isn’t your basic Stanley from TSP. His Parable got…. Well, a little more intense. This isn’t your mom’s TSP. He has a good reason for relating to someone like the Princess.)

[birdybirdnerd]

Happy Birthday @queenburd!!

This started out as a project I planned to pick at for probably a couple months, and then you had to go and mention your birthday was in a couple weeks. Of course, I took that as a challenge- fast forward a little under two weeks later, I have made my first animated lyric comic ever

You are the best muse. I love you so much

This video, for those who don't know, follows the plot of 'repeat and write this story', a concept/sandbox we've been playing in for about a month now. If you aren't familiar with it, go check out their tag- though be warned, the link is it in chronological order, and you need to be on desktop or in browser for it to work, not the mobile app. Otherwise you can just scroll back through the normal tag to find the beginning.

This was so so so much fun and I am SO glad to be a part of this story with you. Thank you so much <3<3<3

[chirpbudgie]

this one turned out to be kind of a vent piece. okay more than kind of. but i can’t say oops because that was the idea.

don’t think there’s any cws besides like, a little bit of thoughts about insides and organs. but i’ll put a dropdown anyway

He stares out the window into the darkness. He can see a few stars in the gaps between thick clouds. 

He… hurts. 

He doesn’t know what part of him it is. It’s too visceral, so it can’t just be in his head, but it’s connected to the feeling of his throat tightening. And it’s connected to his chest, and his stomach, too. Everything twists together in tandem, pulling at the matter behind his ribs. 

He catches a few tears before they fall completely. 

I want to go home. The thought pops in his head unexpectedly. But it bewilders him. He’s home now, isn’t he? In the real world? He has his own dorm room and his own things, and he lives here. That’s what makes a home, doesn’t it? But his feelings don’t seem to think so. Home is somewhere else. Home is…

The hole in his chest yawns, pulling at his innards. His breath hitches on an ugly sob and tears run through the tracks left by old ones. It aches so badly. Home is with arms around him. Home has warm hands and soft kisses and gentle touches. Home has kind words and sweet nicknames. 

He wraps his arms around himself and twists, trying to replicate the feeling. It doesn’t feel the same, not at all. What little comfort it brings is drowned out by the need for more. 

He hasn’t hugged anyone since he left the Parable. 

He finds himself missing his old narrator a little, too. Not at all like he misses the new Narrator, but enough that it tugs on the cavity in his heart. Maybe the Parable wasn’t so bad. Maybe he never should have left. At least there was some sort of reprieve after every stretch of time without contact. There was sometimes kind words and sometimes gentle touches. Now he has nothing. 

His fingers sneak under his sweatshirt and find the divot below his ribs. It feels like, if he dug his fingers in hard enough, far enough, he could fill the hole and force the aching to settle. 

His dormmate has gone away for the three-day weekend. It’s only him in here. All alone. He could cry as loud as he wanted and no one would be there to hear. He wails. There’s no one to hear him. 

He wants to go home. 

[birdy-bird-art]

massive page of doodles done while chatting with some friends on discord, and a little animation during the same. put that beast in a microwave

[qualitative-decay]

the skip button,, is probably the one ending nick's narrator goes through, and doesn't make him do again.

it simply fucked him up Too much. enough that trying to fix or even understand his reaction,, the notion of going through it again is more distressing than any amount of internal inconsistency he could feel. and doesn't it make sense, anyway? that's a, that's a normal thing to have a strong reaction to, there's.... there's no need to look at it any closer! it's fine. he's fine.

nick, i think,, probably was starting to actually be more present, over the course of the memory zone?? it's something new, it's so different from the office, it's calming, nothing bad has happened to him yet. it's.... it's actually pretty nice.

and this side of his narrator,, feels like an echo of something he'd mostly forgotten. he... probably even has some emotions about that. somewhere in there.

even with the bad reviews & the unease he is starting to Actually feel in a more concrete sense, by the time they actually get to the skip button room, nick is more present than he's been in a long time, and he doesn't like it.

the first couple skips, he waits at Least until the narrator loops or goes silent.

the fourth skip, with the extended guilt trip, he gets stuck on.

(this, too, is an echo of something he'd mostly forgotten. before he understood how this worked, before he'd shut himself down so completely.

he just... he'd tried so hard to get through, avoid, go around, bypass in any way the barriers his narrator put up. it's not like it took him long to work out just where he was being forced to go. he didn't understand, and he didn't want to go back, he didn't think his narrator wanted him to go back there either! so why was he doing this, it hurt both of them, he's sorry, please just let him make it up to him, force him to go down any other route if he has to still take the choice away, just please don't make them go through this again please —)

he. actively tries to make himself dissociate again, during that segment. he doesn't want to do any of this. he knows that would make it easier. his skin is crawling with that fear he felt the First time his narrator forced him to hurt both of them, and he can't figure out how to make it stop.

he is very, very familiar with only having one path forward by now.

forcing himself to move past that skip, does prove to be a breaking point for nick; the parallel is too much. the, he's going to make me do this again, he's going to make both of us do this over and over and over until he's satisfied, is too much.

by the time the reset hits & that doesn't happen? he's too far back under the static to even feel relieved.

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was young I was dating this absolute cocknob right as I graduated high school. More on that later.

As a present ostensibly to me (but mostly my folks) I was whisked away after graduation to spend two weeks in Europe with my parents. The plan was to see London, Paris, and Heidelberg.

I was moody and a teenager and was largely disgruntled by this fabulous adventure. I went along with sullen foot dragging and black looks. I commandeered my reprehensible boyfriends enormous black hoodie and wore it on the trip. At the start of our jaunt into London I mentioned offhandedly to my mom that it was burning when I peed.

“You’re just dehydrated, and your period is about to start.”

She was right on both counts. I upped my water content, and had my period (which may have contributed to my overall ill humors.)

So we found ourselves in a tiny hotel in Paris, a week into our jaunt, when I repeated, “Man, it just really burns when I pee.”

“What?!” my mom demanded.

“I told you like a week ago that it was burning.”

“Augh! Now we have to go to the hospital!” she proclaimed.

“What?! Why?”

“Because,” she snapped, “You have a bladder infection.”

More bickering ensued, and my temperament was not improved by knowing I’d told her I was having an issue a week ago and been ignored.

My dad heard about the itinerary shift with resignation and we trooped down the narrow stairs as a family to ask the concierge where the nearest hospital was.

The absolutely lovely man at the desk was immediately so concerned when we asked for directions. “Is everything okay?” he asked with very genuine sympathy and I muttered that everything was fine, we just needed a quick visit.

Lucky for us the hospital was only a few blocks away. We walked there and the building was massive, home to what appeared to be several separate wings but no obvious main entrance.

We wandered inside and it was like a weird dream. There was no one around. Huge echoing corridors met us as we peered in vain for a front desk or possibly signs. We searched with increasing frustration for anyone to talk to and somehow found ourselves in some tiny back offices.

A woman sat at her desk and looked bewildered to see three lost Americans approaching her. She greeted us and as a family we all simultaneously realized the massive flaw in our current course.

You see, dear reader, we did not speak French. My dad and I both spoke German. I inquired politely if she also spoke German and she shook her head looking increasingly cornered. We asked if she spoke English.

“Leetle…?” she replied.

“My daughter has a bladder infection! Blad-der?” My mother declared this at a high volume as if volume alone could bridge the communication gap, while simultaneously miming over my stomach, circling where she presumed my pelvis was under the gigantic black sweatshirt.

The woman’s expression turned extremely skeptical and she slowly repeated “Bladder…” She scrutinized me for a moment then said, “You go…. This?” And pointed to something purple on her desk.

“The purple signs?” my dad asked.

She nodded and we set off. I was stewing with resentment at my mom for having ignored my first complaint when we were in a country that spoke English. And also generalized hostility about being on the trip and the object of miming. Now here we were in a French hospital, lost and unable to communicate. I also was under no illusions that someone who didn’t know the word for purple would have any clue what bladder meant.

And slowly I realized what had actually happened as I peered at the purple signs. My mother circling my stomach with her hands, gesturing to my middle. The woman’s skeptical face.

“Hey mom,” I chirped, syrupy and smug. “I don’t speak French. But I do know that it’s a Latin based language. And wouldn’t you know, but that purple sign looks an awful lot like it says ‘maternity’ to me.”

“Shut up!” she snapped.

A few minutes later we stood surrounded by the moans of pregnant people and the cries of fresh new lungs wailing at their first taste of cold air.

I smiled sweetly at my disgruntled mother.

Luck was with us however. A nearby father noticed us and came over to ask if we needed help. With perfect English he gave us clear directions.

As we finally approached the right area for walk in services it was clear how we’d missed it the first time. A large swathe of the front of the building was covered in tarps. A huge wall sized window was broken, and construction was taking place, but at least it had a bustle of people and a clear line. We sat down in the queue of chairs.

While we sat some police officers came in. They walked up to a man ahead of us in line and with few words exchanged they handcuffed and led him politely away.

I was genuinely so out of reality. Every new thing that happened was like a bizarre dream from the empty hallways to the maternity ward and now this tarp strewn waiting room in which people could just be calmly arrested.

It was a shock to me then when we reached the front and the nurse spoke with perfectly unaccented English to assess me. Not only did she know bladder but a whole slew of other medical words I couldn’t guess at. I peed on a stick and we waited.

When we got the results she told me it was good because they could give me antibiotics today for my now confirmed infection, but bad because I’d need the doctor to sign off. I nodded and my mom and I were escorted to yet another small room to wait.

When the doctor arrived I felt suddenly gangly and awkward. I’m not tall but I towered over this tiny French woman who radiated calm composure. She seemed to be around my grandmothers age. She looked up at my blushing face and said, “Bladder infection?” Her English had a much stronger accent than the nurse but with the same medical competence.

I nodded.

She nodded too and we sat in a still contemplative moment on my UTI.

“Do you have… boyfriend?”

My face was on fire, every cell of me wanting to flee from this tiny perfect old woman. I nodded.

She nodded too. We sat still in the knowledge that I had a boyfriend and a UTI.

“Do you and your boyfriend do… it?” Her delicate accent stretched it into “eet.”

I don’t know if she didn’t know the word for sex or if she thought saying “it” was kinder but I wanted to melt into the floor and cease to exist to escape my increasing mortification and her meaningful pause. I nodded.

“Okay,” she said kindly. “When you and your boyfriend do… it… you must make pee pee.”

I writhed slightly under the psychic damage of this elegant medical professional saying “pee pee” and I nodded more emphatically hoping she’d desist this torture.

She continued. “If you and your boyfriend do… it… five times? You make five pee pees. If you do it ten times, you make ten pee pees.”

My face had never been hotter, all the blood in my body had volcanoed to my head, pounding in my ears and valiantly attempting to give me an aneurism to end my suffering. There is no mortification as acute to a teenager as an adult talking about sex and here was this medical professional telling me about… it.

Meanwhile, my mother. Who should have been regretting her poor parenting and reflecting on her neglect in failing impart this vital part piece of sex ed to her kid. Alas, she was laughing herself sick the corner. She added to my embarrassment by quietly repeating “pee pee” and “it” under her breath as she wheezed and chortled.

The doctor patted my hand kindly and handed me the antibiotics. I got to spend the rest of my trip in Europe avoiding direct sunlight and listening to my mother parrot “Do you do… eet?”

[queenburd]

them!!! it’s them!!!! my friends!!!!!

here’s some context!!

Funny silly guys for @queenburd 's rawts au

Bea - the stanley, tired of this BS, distrustful of his narrator and no longer willing to hear him out

Barry - the narrator, peeped the Horrors but we stay existentially anxious silly!

[achyutapriya]

If you call yourself a Krishna Bhakt but at the same time disrespect the Mahishis (Queens) of Dwarka (this includes questioning the authenticity of their love for him and his love for them in return, comparing their love, putting them down, making abhorrent claims about how their love was not completely pure, claiming how they were jealous of each other and the gopis, making passive aggressive comments against them to even liking and sharing content which promote these kinds of beliefs) in the name of glorifying Kanha's leelas in Braj then it's beyond time for you to touch some grass, read actual scriptures and question your entire existence. *GLORIFICATION CAN BE DONE WITHOUT SHOWING DISRESPECT TO EITHER OF THE TWO GROUPS*

[marlynnofmany]

Squishy Cybernetics

“Hello!” I said. “Where would you like this?” I waved an arm at the large pallet of boxes, bags, and miscellaneous other packaging. It was on one of our biggest hoversleds, and accompanied by some of the biggest crewmates.

The Waterwill at the loading gate burbled thoughtfully, sounding like a water jug given sentience. She extended what passed for an arm of her own and pointed indoors. “You’d better bring it all the way in. Over here.” She glided inward, moving in that mysterious way I’d never figured out. Someone shaped like a column of jello had no business scooting forward that quickly, no matter how much their lower end rippled against the floor.

But I didn’t have time for galaxy-gazing; I had to help steer the hoversled. Regulations said we needed someone on all four sides for a load this big, just in case of antigrav mishaps. Didn’t want it slamming into something breakable at this client’s facility — or slamming into anything at all, really, but this place was some sort of high-tech manufacturing plant, and I didn’t want to think about what kind of damage a crash could do.

No mishaps today, though. The Frillian twins paced along on either side, all muscles and tight clothes (they’d left the flowy silks behind today; a solid choice). I couldn’t see Zhee in the back, but I heard the quiet click of his bug feet. My own feet were silent in proper Earth shoes as I tugged the steering handle and followed the Waterwill.

I thought we’d just take the thing to the far side of the big loading dock, unload it in an out-of-the-way spot to be unpacked later. But the Waterwill kept going. We passed hovercars and wheeled carts, storage cabinets and bins, along with a baffling arrangement of pipes along one wall. Windows showed glimpses of the busy manufacturing facility. I had no idea what they were making. Maybe I’d get a better look on the way back out.

Oh hey, a human, I thought in surprise as I passed a bigger window. With a Strongarm on his back? What in the world are they making together? I was already moving past, and could only speculate about intricate manufacturing projects that needed hands and tentacles at the same time.

I was still wondering why the Strongarm hadn’t just pulled up a chair next to the human when the Waterwill signalled me to stop. “Stopping,” I announced for Zhee’s benefit. We all came to a halt, and nobody crashed into anything. Hallelujah.

“Here, please,” the Waterwill said. She stretched her arm out into a long tendril to pick up a scrap of something blue that had fallen on the floor, and pointed at an empty space near several foam-topped tables. “I’m needed out front. Heeme, can you oversee?”

“Sure thing,” said a voice from nowhere, then a Strongarm climbed out from under one of the tables. “Found the last of the broken bits, by the way.” Two of his tentacles were curled around pieces of the same blue stuff the Waterwill had picked up. The blue stood out against the dark red of his skin, but not as much as the four mismatched tentacles on other side did. They were a transparent blue-green much like the Waterwill’s own tendrils. I tried not to stare, and failed.

“Thank you,” the Waterwill said. “I’ll be back in a bit.” She set her broken piece of whatever on the nearest table, then scooted through a door that was apparently soundproofed, because a cacophony of whirs and whooshes filled the air until it closed.

“Right,” I said. “Over here, then.” I steered the hoversled into position, then we all worked together to guide the detachable gravity platform onto the ground. That part always made me nervous, since it looked like the giant pallet that could crush me was floating through the air with just a touch of technological magic to make it go. I understand other models of industrial-sized hoversleds have more mechanical-looking gravity platforms, or regular forklift arms. Ours was the glowy magic kind, and it deposited the giant stack of objects with all the precision of the best fairytale enchantment.

“Perfect,” said the Strongarm. “We’ll unpack it from here. Thanks.”

“Our pleasure,” I said.

Zhee, finally able to see over the hoversled, got a good look at who I was talking to. “Oh, I’m sure you’re fast at unpacking,” he said, pointing with his pincher arm. “Does that model form into blades?”

“Sure does!” the Strongarm said, holding up a see-through tentacle that instantly flattened into a shape like a steak knife. “Good for packaging, stubborn latches, and all manner of other things.”

“And stabbing!” Blop put in, to be immediately shushed by his sister.

“No stabbing on the job,” she told him.

The Strongarm laughed. “Yeah, just respectable tool use. They don’t give these out to anyone who’s going to do violence with them.”

I asked, “Is that Waterwill tech? I haven’t seen one before.”

“Yup.” He turned the knife back into a tentacle, then into a variety of other shapes. “One of the perks of working here, for sure. They’re cagey about sharing tech. This is the best prosthesis I’ve ever encountered.”

I thought of the hard metal-and-plastic replacement limbs that were standard on Earth. They would be wildly out of place on this guy’s squishy octopus body. And no amount of interchangeable attachments would be able to beat this kind of easy shapeshifting. I said, “That looks really useful.”

“It is!”

The loud door opened to admit a wall of sound, along with the human-and-Strongarm pair. Which I realized with a start was actually just a human wearing more transparent tentacles on his back.

“Here’s the new set,” he said to the Strongarm, placing a clear box on the table that was full of a stack of more flat blue things. They appeared to be cut into very specific shapes. I might have been curious about what they were for if not for the much more interesting thing to be curious about.

“Hello,” I said. “Does everyone who works here get extra limbs?”

The tan human grinned. “If they want ‘em! And they pass the screening, of course. But you’ve got to leave them here each day if they’re the bonus kind, as opposed to replacements.”

The Strongarm wiggled his tentacles in a taunting manner. “I can open packages and slice food so easily at home.”

The human made a face and wiggled the tentacles on his back. “Yeah yeah, we’re all jealous. Someday I’ll convince the bosses that there’s an actual market for these, and I’ll be the first in line to buy my own.”

“They think there isn’t?” I asked in shock. “Those look so useful! I can’t list the number of times I’ve wished for more hands. Using teeth and feet only goes so far.”

Zhee made a disparaging hiss. “You have that many fingers, and still want more? Greedy.”

“I’m just saying that re-weaving a cargo net would go much faster if I could hold all of the fibers at once,” I told him, then turned to the Frillians. “Back me up. Two arms just isn’t enough sometimes, right?”

Blip and Blop looked at each other and shrugged. “I guess?” Blip said. “But that’s just when it’s time to get another person to help.”

Zhee clicked a pincher. “Exactly so. Or approach the problem differently.”

The human told me, “I’ve had this conversation more than once. Apparently not all species grow up imagining what it’s like to have bird wings or monkey tails or whatnot.”

“Surely other people want to fly,” I said. The expressions around me were dishearteningly blank. “Surely!”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” the human said. “See why I couldn’t convince the bosses?”

“But even on a practicality standpoint!” I exclaimed. “They have you using them here; why wouldn’t they think you’d want to use them at home?”

He shrugged, moving the tentacles in a graceful wave as he did. “Alien brains. I’ve given up trying to fully understand.”

The Strongarm spoke up. “If there are actually a large number of humans who would buy these, then it couldn’t hurt to put together a request from outside sources. The bosses don’t listen to random employees who are probably biased, but they might take an interest in actual buyers.”

I shook my head slowly. “Our courier ship isn’t going to be that kind of buyer, especially not at the scale they’d probably need.”

“What about big human ships?” Blip asked. “We could suggest it to the next one we meet.”

“Or human colonies,” Blop said. “Or large groups at space stations.”

Zhee said, “I heard Captain Sunlight talking about a delivery to Basal Station soon. There are plenty of humans there. You could suggest it to them, if you think this is really that widespread an interest.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” I said, thinking. There was indeed a significant human population on that space station, which might even include the crew I’d met from the droid jousting ship Hold My Beer. They were definitely the type to appreciate some extra arms. Both for working on finicky electronics and general slapfight shenanigans.

“Here, we should have something with the contact information,” said the Strongarm. “Jon, is there a notepad over there?”

“Yeah, got it.” The human leaned over a table and used his tentacles to lift a stack of books so he could pull out the small notepad at the bottom. That may have been showing off. “Here you go!” He handed it to me with his regular hand.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see if I can find the right ears to whisper into.”

“Best of luck!” he said. “My partner has asked me no less than half a dozen times if I could sneak my set home to play around with, but I’m not gonna risk the job.”

I laughed, hoping I wasn’t blushing. “Oh man, I wasn’t even going to mention the bedroom applications.”

Of course Zhee had to ask, tilting his head with faceted eyes shining. “The what?”

“Remember how most humans find tentacles a little creepy?” I asked him, pocketing the notepad.

“I recall. It makes this insistence all the stranger.”

“Well, some humans aren’t creeped out at all. Kind of the opposite. They like them a lot. In a, uh, private fashion.”

Jon the human spelled it out for him. “Mating rituals.”

Zhee’s antennae did a complicated dance, then settled in something that looked like disgust. “I was about to ask why, but I’ve decided I don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, best not to,” I agreed. “Anyway! Very useful extra arms. Good for a wide variety of activities. Other humans will likely be interested.”

“Very likely,” Jon agreed.

I activated the hovercart with a nod, and we said our goodbyes. The employees wished me luck. They returned to work while we headed back toward our ship.

Zhee grumbled disparaging things about my species the whole way, but that was nothing new.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come! And I am currently drafting a sequel!

PS: the story with the good ship Hold My Beer is here, if you're wondering about that. It's fun.

[fuckinart]

(they'll never understand) How could I ever understand? No, I don't have to understand. I don't wanna understand. So I will never understand. (we could have everything)

[queenburd]

Stanley B, his narrator, and his Line™️

His narrator never actually made a model, but if he had, it would have been extremely broken—improperly created, the model would tear, textures disappearing and glitching like seeing through the mesh. Think like this:

B’s Adventure Line™️ was the closest thing to a friend he had. Even though death wasn’t a significant, permanent thing, it still worked to keep him alive on his runs through the death traps his narrator made.

I could spend an eon talking about this guy. He’s just special to me.

[birdybirdnerd]

Dr Joy has some concerns about the Stanley Brigade

[chirpbudgie]

hi i wrote more gidget angst. wowie who could have expected that. its almost like im lonely or something

cws: emeto, unreliable narrator/perspective, themes of major character death. also it’s a sickfic

Gidget peeks out from under the table. A small crowd has formed in front of the escape pod as everyone clambers out of the Parable. He stumbles over, barely upright and carried by momentum. 

“Where-“ his desperate voice cuts out and he clears his throat. “Where’s Spencer?”

Suddenly the ceiling and the walls and the floor are much more interesting, because everyone turns their gaze away from him as soon as they hear the words. His heart stutters. 

“Uncle Stan? Where’s Spencer?” 

The man in question makes a horrible face that makes his stomach churn. Sympathy? Discomfort? Regret? All three? Gidget doesn’t see the expression on him often enough to know. It kind of scares him. 

“Uncle Stan?” He asks again, softer. Why won’t anyone tell him what happened? Can’t they just get it over with and spit it out? If he’s in trouble, they can go back for him, he just wants to apologize for-

“I’m sorry,” Stan finally murmurs. 

What? He does a double-take. Sorry for what? That he’s not here right now? Well, that’s okay, he can wait a little while. Spencer’s gotta come back eventually. It’s not safe in the Parable, so he has to. He can’t possibly be gone gone, right? 

Could he?

Is he?

Stan’s expression worsens when the realization finally clicks. 

“Gone?” He barely whispers. He barely sees the nod before Stanford sweeps him into a smothering hug that he clings to. 

Spencer is gone. 

It’s his fault, isn’t it? Gidget was the one who held him back, distracted him from the group. He didn’t even get to apologize. He barely got the chance to say goodbye. 

He’s never going to see Spencer again. 

“I want my Bubba,” he begs into Stanford’s shirt, feeling wholly undeserving. “Want my Bubba, please, please.”

A few broken sobs spill out, but he’s still in too much shock to properly cry. 

Another pair of arms wraps around him. “Want my Bubba!” He feels the strain in his throat from the desperate cry and he cringes a little. Somebody starts shushing him gently and it only makes him cry harder at the reminder. Spencer always did that for him when he cried, a reminder that he was there. But Spencer’s not here anymore. 

When he’s pulled away from Stanford, his head is pounding and everything is dark. There’s pressure under and behind his eyes and he can’t breathe through his nose, leaving him to take ragged breaths through his dehydrated mouth. 

“Want my Bubba.” The phrase is much more slurred and painful. 

[We hear you, sweetheart. You’re hurting yourself.] His hands are pulled along to read the signs. [Spencer’s not here right now.]

It feels like the world comes crashing down on him and he wails loudly. He misses his Bubba so, so much. Where is Bubba? Does Bubba not love Gidget anymore? Did he do something to deserve this? 

Something uncomfortably cold is pressed to his ear right as he begins to gag. He fumbles with the bin that appears in his lap. 

“Gidget, it’s me. Hi, baby. You’re okay, I’m okay.”

He can’t even force anything out in response besides ragged whining through the loss of his stomach contents. He’s so disoriented and dizzy—was he dreaming earlier? Is this real? Is he still dreaming? 

“Shhh, don’t strain yourself. Bubba’s not going anywhere. Stanford and his Narrator are gonna take care of you right now, alright?”

“Want Bubba,” he finally croaks out. He feels like he’s gonna faint, his hands and feet are getting tingly. The bin is taken from him and his face is wiped with a damp cloth. It makes him shiver and sweat at the same time. 

“I know, baby, I wanna be with you too. Bubba’s sorry.”

“Lay down, dear,” a Narrator whispers to him. A pillow is pressed to his head and he’s guided onto his back. Where did Stanford go, wasn’t he holding him up? 

He shakes the distraction off. “No!” He protests, sounding much quieter than he was hoping. “No sorry! Sorry!” He breaks into a coughing fit that feels just as awful as it sounds. His throat feels torn up like when he scrapes his knees on the concrete. 

“Shh, shhh,” the sound makes him shiver. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. What do ya mean, baby?”

Gidget sobs from the pain and the reminder. “Sorry, ‘m sorry, Bubba. Was dumb, my fault.” 

“No, baby, no. None of that, no more. Accidents happen and you already said sorry. Don’t think about that right now. Focus on feeling better, alright?”

Gidget can only whimper in response. He’s already run out of tears and exhausted himself. 

“Yeah, just relax. Get some rest, baby. I know you don’t feel good.”

He feels the spout of a water bottle nudge at his cheek so he turns his head to accept it. It feels so good, soothing his raw throat and tastes addicting. It gets pulled away several times while he’s still drinking, which he protests and whines about. 

Spencer just shushes him over the phone. It makes his eyelids feel extra heavy, and he paws at the blankets for something to hold. A warm hand stops him and tucks a familiar stuffed animal into his arm. 

“Fishie,” he mumbles, shaking it lightly to hear the rattle inside. A wobbly smile finally arrives. 

“That’s right, you have all your stuffies. They told me they wanted to go with you so you wouldn’t be lonely.”

Gidget feels himself tear up again. “T’ank you,” he bleats. “Miss you.” 

“I miss you too, baby. Go to sleep now, I’ll see you soon, alright?”

A damp cloth is tied to his forehead with a headband. He curls up on his side, phone tucked under his ear, and listens to Spencer’s voice and shushing until he can’t stay awake any longer. 

[birdy-bird-art]

Be patient with me

I am learning to be lost

Don't be gentle, never gentle

Be mindful of me

I will sink at any cost

-

i am not skilled at making gifs. also kdenlive wants to hunt me for bloodsport (the feeling is mutual)

boys belonging to @queenburd!! (except spencer is mine for their au). once again rawts is killing me

[qualitative-decay]

@queenburd have a guy for rawts for u

[nickname pending] nicolas's narrator would railroad him into specific endings to "troubleshoot" them/would elsewise get fixated on specific endings & require him to go through them ad nauseum — he'd say his lines like normal but would block off all routes Other than his intended one. after enough time in the original parable, his narrator dialed this back, but nick would still Do endings over and over just out of. habit more or less. it took him a long time to even Start to break out of that. ....and then ultra deluxe happens.

(unfortunately, the repetition proved to have. uh. side effects. the parable began to slowly lose efficacy at resetting physical effects on nick; as the loops wore on, his body started to show the echoes of what happened to him, in a manner roughly analogous to pixels burned on a crt monitor.)

when stan's narrator shows up, nick could be either very easy to evacuate (it would honestly work to just. corral him in the direction of the escape pod), Or very tricky to, if the narrator wasn't able to isolate that route without interference or if he tried to get nick to. uh. wake up a little. first.

...this. also depends a little on what ending is currently being cycled through, and how long it's been the current test case; he's always at least a little more lucid when his narrator first switches tack, and then leans heavier on the dissociation after it's been going for longer. if it's shortly after a change in routine, the narrator would have a better shot at getting an actual reaction from him; he could also manufacture this to some degree re:corralling him towards the escape pod. (though there is. probably a line to be careful of in terms of something being "new & interesting enough to get him to actually reconnect", or "too new; out of place unfamiliar = Frightening = Harder disconnect")

while in the parable, nick doesn't talk at all. even his headspace honestly is just... mostly full of static, with very sparse impressions of words or flashes of emotion that are subsumed almost immediately.

even out of the parable, he probably never really talks much; think he probably Can, but it's hard for him to pull his thoughts together fast enough to keep up with a conversation. he probably keeps a notebook & pencil on hand to communicate with if he needs to, bc the drafting & having the words visually in front of him makes it easier. in general he's still very prone to spacing out/just... losing time; start doing the dishes, continue mindlessly, and then they are done and he's still just standing there with his hands under the faucet staring at nothing until his knees give out, type of thing.

he gets into sewing to have something to do with his hands as a grounding thing (it was just... the first thing he stumbled onto that Wasn't a texture or sound he Couldn't deal with, so he latched onto it pretty hard), but he Does have to be careful with it; depending on where he's at mentally & what he's working on he can still put himself into a trance with it.

endings where his narrator found his own emotional state distressing or perplexing/incongruent with his understanding of himself were the most likely to see longer spans of that being The Thing That Was Repeated

so like while on the list of "physically damaging endings", yeah the countdown ending results in literally being blown up, but it just didn't see as much Repetition as for example the zending. which, due to the degree of randomness to the exact injuries suffered on any given run of it, though, the effects are not as bad as they could be??

that said. his bones are probably pretty fucked up. entirely too many hairline fractures, fewer-but-still-a-significant-amount-of larger breaks. almost definitely needs some kind of mobility aid once he's out of the parable.

visible damage is mostly gonna be scars where bone was. uh. let's say statistically likely to poke through; most of the injuries he had to undergo repeatedly were in the camp of blunt force trauma. might have some patches of skin where like there's definitely something that happened to it, but not visible/clear enough to tell What.

way back at the start of things for them, they probably were decently amicable honestly?? in a distant sort of way, at least. but the first time nick did an ending that upset his narrator, things. uh. spiraled (he made this story, he made nick, why is he feeling like this about it? it's just a story, right? nick isn't even a person, so why does he feel like this —)

....so he. really, really doubles down on the "nick isn't a person he's just a character a tool" thing. in a way that very much grew out of Not Wanting To Feel Like That Again. ....aaaand then he proceeded to torment the both of them for the next [error:valuenotfound] trying to "fix" himself 😔

(nick.... honestly, i think he had an inkling of that, shortly after that spiral started. but. it's been long buried by entirely too much time & pain.

even so, he can't bring himself to be mad about any of it for a Long time. ...if he ever. gets there at all. a lot of that is a,, learned helplessness type of thing,, and a lot of it is that he pretty much shut off his own emotions as hard as he could, but wayyyy down at the Root of it there's still that seed of "this is because i hurt him, he just didn't want to be hurt again")

[jamiethebeeart]

The Fate of the Dead

(Go to the end for prompt source and ao3 link) Chapter 1:

Sam was able to see the future. 

“A gift” her grandfather whispered on his deathbed.

“A curse,” her mother sneered. 

“Hope,” her grandmother said. 

“Witch” her playmates said. 

One move to a rinky dink town later and even though her parents didn’t say anything, Sam understood – keep quiet, say nothing, and everything would be fine.

-

While the first few years of Sam’s life were a whirlwind of activities, fancy parties, and frilly, fashionable dresses, the next few years were quiet.  Living in a small town where no one knew who the Mansons were, was an adjustment.  Sam, even at her young age, could pick up on the quiet resentment from her parents.  The sidelong looks at the TV over news of celebrity parties, the glance over at Sam when reading the Socialites section of the newspaper, and the way that they frowned when Sam started talking about her visions.  By the time Sam entered 1st grade, she stopped mentioning them to anyone, family or otherwise.  Why would her parents care about the sight of blood on the playground, or the car crash on the interstate?  They couldn’t stop it, and Sam couldn’t either – not without knowing information like “where” or “why” or the most important of all – “when”. 

-

Walking into the 2nd grade hallway, she found her teacher waving students in that they recognized from open night into the classroom.  As Sam approached, the teacher brightened, “Hello Samantha!  Walk right in, there’s a seating chart at the front of the classroom.  Please find your seat and sit down.  Class will start soon.”  Nodding, Sam walked into the classroom and saw a large easel with sticky notes plastered to it.  Each one was arranged into groups like the desks behind her.  She located her seat, turned around, and almost ran into a boy with black hair.

“DANNY!”  A woman slid to a halt, bumping the classroom teacher a little as she caught herself on the door post.  A backpack held up in one hand and breathing hard, like she’d ran to the school.  After a moment, she looked up, “Danny, you forgot your backpack.”

The black haired boy turned around, “Oh!  Thanks Mommy!” he grinned as he ran back to her. 

Sam stopped, shocked – not because of the almost run in, but because that boy looked like a younger version of the one she saw in one of her oldest visions.  The only recurring one she’d ever had.  As the boy shooed his mother off and turned around to head back to the easel, Sam woodenly headed to her seat, refusing to look up from the floor.  Swinging the straps of her bag over the back of her seat, she smoothed her skirt, and sat down.  She blinked a few times, fighting back tears.  Not all of Sam’s visions were unpleasant, but the ones that were, tended to be rather extreme – this particular one included.  She had almost convinced herself it was a recurring nightmare rather than a true vision, but there was no way she could have imagined those screams.  She breathed in and out to calm herself like her mother showed her, fists clenched under her desk, hidden, like her father.  As the thunk of a backpack landed on the desk next to her, she shook her head a little and looked up.  “I’m Sam,” she introduced herself to the boy next to her.  A hand stuck out in his direction.

“Tucker,” the boy grinned, as he shook her hand.

By the end of recess later that day, Danny was sporting a bloody nose, Tucker was on the ground, and Sam stood in front of them, glaring at the blonde kid who started it all.

“Step aside, if you know what’s good for you!” the kid said, trying to stand up tall, chest puffed out.

“You can’t hit a girl!” Danny yelled around the hand clutching his nose.

“Yeah!  That’s, like, super mean!”  Tucker said as he started to stand.

“I might!” was the response.

Sam glared harder, “You can try.”

“Move!” Dash screamed.

“No!” Sam screamed back.

“Over here!  There’s some little kids fighting!”  An older student was yelling across the playground, motioning for a teacher’s assistant on recess duty to come over.

By the end of the day, Dash was suspended and Sam had made two lifelong friends.

-

“But Saaaaaam,” Danny whined, “why do we have to go the long way to the park?”

“Yea, Saaaam whyyy, my feet already hurt from PE today,” Tucker said, a few steps behind the other two.

“Because I said so,” Sam rolled her eyes.  “It’s nice out today - why wouldn’t we take advantage of it?”

Danny slowed down to settle beside Tucker and stage whispered, “I think this is payback for painting the inside of her locker pink.”

“No.”  Tucker solemnly said.  “She’s just trying to kill us.”

Danny nodded, “Aaah, that makes sense.  Do you think she’ll at least pay our funeral expenses?”

Tucker snorted, “She should at least pay for our coffin lining.  I’m thinking light blue.  Sam, what do you think?  Light blue?  Or should you do green for me?”

Sam rolled her eyes and turned around to walk backwards to talk to them, “I think you two are melodramatic and insufferable.”

The boys laughed at her, seeing the uptick of her mouth.  They walked a little faster.  Sam turned back around right before Tucker slung an arm around her shoulders as they fell in step with her. “So, a bottom of the line white?” Tucker asked.

Danny gasped, “And here I thought Sam wasn’t like those, quote, ‘basic bitches’.”  The boys cackled as Sam shrugged Tucker’s arm off with a huff.

“First – I called them shallow.  Second, I would at least spring for a black lining.  If I can’t convince you two to go goth in life, I’ll have to make it happen in death.”  Sam held her head up in mock snootiness before side eyeing Danny and laughing at his grimace.  They made it to the park walking past the people walking dogs and others playing with young kids to the far end.  The trees started to get dense and the park area slowly transitioned into proper woods.  They could hear birds quieting down as they pushed aside branches and went through some bushes.  A slight breeze pushed through their group as they came upon the dry creek.  Stepping on the large stones in the creek bed, they made their way across to a fallen tree on the other side.  Tucker and Danny let out twin groans of relief at being able to plop down.  Sam made a face at their antics and took the seat in between them.

“So,” Sam started.  She refused to look at either one.

The chirping of the birds started up again.  Danny shifted his foot around at the dirt under his shoe, looking up at the sky.  Tucker took off his glasses to clean them off on his shirt.  After putting them back on, Tucker raised an eyebrow, “So?”

Sam laughed sheepishly, “I forgot.”

“What?!” Danny blurted out, taking his eyes off the clouds to look at her.

“Yea! What?! You’re the one who wanted to take us out here today!” Tucker added on.

“We could be at home playing DOOMED, ignoring our homework, instead of out here, tired, overheated, and ignoring our homework,” Danny said.

“That’s it then, I guess I’ll have to take out my homework and have you help me.”  Tucker paused hopefully.  “Unless you suddenly remember?”

Sam furrowed her eyebrows, looking down, “No.  Let’s do our homework.”  She unzipped her spider backpack to pull out her binder.

Danny looked behind Sam’s back at Tucker mouthing, “Are you serious?!?”

Tucker widened his eyes, shrugging and shaking his head towards Sam, “Sorry?!?!”.

Sam sat up with her binder and pencil, cutting their silent back and forth short.  “Alright.  Is it going to be English or History?"  She looked at Tucker, down at his untouched backpack, and then back up.  “Seriously?”  A signature Sam frown was gifted upon him.  “You were the one to suggest this.  Hurry up.  As soon as I’m done, I’m leaving you two behind in the woods.”  At the thought of having to walk back by themselves, Danny and Tucker scrambled to get their backpacks open and homework out.  Sam smiled a little.  As much as she loved these moments, she was already mourning their end.

Prompt: You can see visions of the future, but you learned long ago to keep them to yourself. Now, you have to speak up or risk losing everything you love. Source: https://prowritingaid.com/fiction-writing-prompts

The Fate of the Dead - Chapter 1 - J_Bee - Danny Phantom [Archive of Our Own]