i would wipe my memory just to read these again
absolute best fics that i've read. like top tier genuinely the best, i think about these ones regularly and Often
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Recent works
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Bonnie gives Siffrin a late night tour of Bambouche. On the beach, Siffrin tells them about his home.
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Five Pebbles is frustrated. He's tired of searching for the solution, tired of trying over and over again, and angry at his creators for leaving him behind to finish their works.
Usually he'd turn to Seven Red Suns, but a temporary communications issue ensures the iterator is unavailable at a critical moment. With little choice he turns to the only iterator left he can think of.
NSH: Speaking entirely seriously, you need a hobby.
(In which Pebble's 'Bugs in a maze' talk happens with Sig, hobbies are more fascinating than he realises, and eventually slugcats can into space)
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ACT ??? Scene 15
[THE TRAVELER blinks awake in a field from a dream.
The sun is warm. The grass beneath is soft. It is, truly, a lovely day.]
TRAVELER [Aside]: ...It's not so bad, is it? Being here in the loops?
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“Be a warrior.”
From the moment he accepted the boy’s offer, Macaque knows how it’s going to end.
Or: Macaque knows that Wukong has been holding back, and what happens when he doesn't. It doesn't change his decision.
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“Etho bends over his own reflection and finds that from his left eye, he cries red.”
An origin-story-character-study for Etho and his pioneering of redstone.
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A collection of outtakes, alternate POVs, and missing scenes from my existing work.
222-236. whumptober fills.
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- Words:
- 61,174
- Works:
- 2
- Bookmarks:
- 263
Bookmarked by Shadowlit
02 Apr 2026
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He reaches up. Alastor grabs for his hand, and their fingers brush — he tries again and manages to catch Lucifer’s fingertips, manages to grip his hand and tug Lucifer in — then he grabs the front of Lucifer’s shirt and pulls him even closer.
They cling to each other — Lucifer’s body is the only source of warmth in the freezing cold. Alastor keeps a firm grip on Lucifer’s shirt and uses his other hand to dry his face. Lucifer watches him with wide eyes.
Alastor leans in to be heard over the wind. “Ask me.”
Lucifer just looks at him blankly.
“Ask me what I want,” Alastor says.
“What do you want?” Lucifer says, and his voice is so vulnerable, so broken, that Alastor loses the words —
What hope did he ever have, anyway, of describing the feeling he hardly understands himself — how Lucifer has wormed his way into the most disused corners of his heart, how he has unmade the demon Alastor thought he was and reawakened what Alastor thought long dead.
They’re always doing this, aren’t they? Falling. Falling apart — falling open — falling over each other.
Alastor cups the back of Lucifer’s head with his hand and brings their lips together. It is no more than a press of lips — inexpert, surely; almost certainly he is humiliating himself somehow, failing to include some essential component. Lucifer makes a surprised sound, and Alastor drinks it down and kisses him a second time, in case the first left any lingering doubts.
Alastor breaks the second kiss, but Lucifer’s hand slides up into his hair and holds him in place. Lucifer smiles against his mouth, pulls Alastor closer with an arm around his waist, and returns the kiss in earnest; his lips part under Alastor’s, soft and wet.
The ground is rushing up to meet them, now, but Alastor isn’t afraid; he knows what will become of them when they land.
They’ll be home.
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Bradycardia
noun. Slowness of the heart rate, usually fewer than 60 beats per minute in an adult human.Metanarrative Bradycardia
noun. As bradycardia, but with heartbeats timed to occur exactly once per chapter.Or
Kris wakes up on the day they didn't know would be important, and finds that the heart in their chest is barely moving at all. To most people, this would be a medical emergency. To Kris, it's a combination of agency and not actively dying that they'd all but given up on ever feeling again.
Well. Far be it from them to take hold of whatever freedom they can find.Or
How do you replicate the chaotic, often antagonistic relationship between a game's protagonist and player in a text based medium? You let the comment section command by committee. For better or worse.
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“What are we toasting to?” he asks as Carter takes a seat in the rickety chair by his bed.
“The future,” she declares, raising her glass.
The future. Bright and shiny and full of possibilities. Dark and mysterious and unknown. A world without Steve.
He lifts his own glass, breathes through the sharp grief cutting into his lungs. “The future.”
(May it be a bearable one.)
Their glasses clink.
(Or Bucky Barnes, Peggy Carter, and Steve Rogers on Christmas, from 1937 to 2012.) -
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"Death is not permitted here."
The Radiance perishes and Hallownest falls silent. The infection of light spares few in its wake, turning the kingdom into a tomb filled with the bodies of the formerly afflicted. After some time spent recovering in Dirtmouth, Hornet chooses to depart the only home she's ever known. She descends one final time in search of survivors who may also wish to leave, thinking nothing of her sacrificed siblings, though she carries a pair of mismatched horns underneath her cloak.
But something else stirs beneath her feet, ancient and full of grief, and Hornet's task proves far more treacherous than she had believed, her path littered with old gods and new threats. As she delves into the darkest reaches of Hallownest, haunted with visions of the life spent there, the orphaned princess learns that she must reckon with all she has lost, before the kingdom and its secrets destroy whatever she has left.
Series
- Part 1 of Redwork
Bookmarked by Shadowlit
14 Jul 2025
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what the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck dude
How similar to her own life, she thought. I didn’t. Entombing herself within the dead lands she had never claimed as her own, silencing her inner desolation with the strangling thread of duty. These are not my words. She had thought the company of other lives to be at once beyond and beneath her. Until that desecrating Void-born witch had tunneled through her memories, she had buried most everything, even the thoughts of her mother, the one person she’d allowed to become close. I swear that this is not me. Love was now a thing unrecognizable. That was why, in the final days, she had not taken hold of it when it had shown itself to her, not understood its true shape until it had been far beyond her grasp. Where are my hands. I would deafen myself to these lies if I could only find my hands. That was why she had thrown herself so willingly at this impossible task, one more thread to which she could cling, because love destroys us and yet without love we are left with no other choice than to make ourselves the instruments of our own destruction. No more. Please. She would never return from here, from this palace that was not a palace, and even if she did, then the thing that would return would be no different from the tormented and woeful figure she had witnessed earlier, just before it had commenced the obliteration of all it had cared for with a grief so consuming that it would not even allow its bearer the focus to die. Sealed within this mourning, to live forever.