â±ËïœĄâ âȘ THE đTAGES OF đNTIMACY.  a collection of various action prompts centered around the varying stages of intimacy. feel free to adjust as desired. heavily mature content, dni with this post if you are under 18, & DO NOT use these prompts for non-con scenarios.  )
SETTINGS.
[01.] finding privacy in a cramped dressing room.
[02.] cramming into the backseat of a car together.
[03.] slipping into the lonesome alleyway behind the bar for "time alone".
[04.] pulling them away from a party after hours of relentless teasing.
[05.] getting handsy under the table at a fancy dining establishment.
[06.] taking the long way home and pulling over on a dark stretch of road.
[07.] staying behind at the venue after everyone else has left.
[08.] the hotel room door barely clicks shut before hands are on them.
[09.] a tent in the middle of nowhere where no one can hear anything.
NEW TERRITORY.
[10.] finding yourself staring at their mouth and getting caught.
[11.] pulling back from a kiss to look at them, then immediately going back in.
[12.] memorizing the shape of them for the first time with your palms.
[13.] that exploratory first kiss, reserved and shy.
[14.] a gentle first kiss that morphs into intense want.
[15.] feeling the shape of their body through their clothes.
[16.] asking for permission to remove one of their garments.
[17.] finally succumbing to the thick tension & colliding feverishly.
[18.] fumbling with buttons or zippers because your hands won't stop shaking.
[19.] admitting out loud that you've been thinking about this for a while.
HEATING UP.
[20.] pulling them into your lap in the midst of a heated kiss.
[21.] discovering that they're wearing [ GEAR / LINGERIE ] under their clothes.
[22.] kissing away from their lips, down the length of their neck.
[23.] desperately grinding on them through layers of clothing.
[24.] dirty talking directly into their ear to turn them on even further.
[25.] pushing them onto a piece of furniture before straddling them.
[26.] lifting them onto the countertop while making out.
[27.] tugging their hair to expose more of their throat to your mouth.
[28.] the wrecked way they say your name for the first time.
[29.] fabric tearing because neither of you has the patience for buttons.
[30.] removing an obstacle of clothing with your teeth.
UNRAVELING.
[31.] biting down on their shoulder to muffle how good it feels.
[32.] the sound they make when you find the spot that undoes them.
[33.] begging without any trace of pride left and meaning every word.
[34.] their composure cracking for the first time, they finally stop holding back.
[35.] repeating "don't stop" like it's the only language left in their mouth.
[36.] leaving possessive marks in places only they'll see.
[37.] whispering "look at me" right before you take them apart.
[38.] trying to be quiet and failing, so they clamp a hand over your mouth.
[39.] flipping positions so fast neither of you remembers who initiated it.
[40.] their nails dragging down your back hard enough to sting later.
[41.] being told to open your mouth and doing it before the sentence is finished.
[42.] having your hands pinned above your head.
[43.] the desperate scramble to get closer when there is no closer to get.
COMING DOWN.
[44.] fingers lazily tracing the marks they just left on your skin.
[45.] pulling the blanket over both of you without being asked.
[46.] that silent, dazed smile when they catch your eye across the pillow.
[47.] the shaky laugh when neither of you can remember where your shirt is.
[48.] going to get water and bringing a glass back for them without asking.
[49.] lying chest to chest, feeling their heartbeat slow back down against yours.
[50.] the quiet "hey" that means something completely different now.
[51.] "come here" said softly â not urgently. just wanting them close again.
Hi every !... it seems I wrote a "Masterdoc" for "spam tenna"
you can read it here!
There is certainly a lot of information about them online already, but there doesn't appear to be any one single spot with Everything, nor do most of them contain in-depth analyses.. so i thought i would do it myself, just for my own sanity, since a lot of their canonical information can be obscure.
It will go over both basic/well-known information, and also some things i've never really seen anyone talk about.. so if you're interested, or don't know a lot about them and want to know more than you would ever need to know... maybe give it a read!
(thank you to @ilikecanele for helping me)
under the cut are some snippets of itđMy this
writing your fave having sex with with their love interest is OUT writing your fave shamefully jerking off and coming pathetically fast at just the idea of fucking their love interest is IN
requested by: anon
request: How do I write a good kiss scene? As how do I describe it? What details or words would make it good?
What goes into the writing of a kiss scene?
details to incorporate:
the sensations in their stomach, their chest, and their knees
the way their breathing changes shortly before the kiss
the feeling of the other's hands
the texture of the other's clothing
the moment they realise they've reached the point of no return
the feeling they're left with after the kiss
words to use...
... to describe the kiss:
tentative
tender
hesitant
quick
soft
gentle
delicate
languid
feathery
familiar
exploring
hungry
heated
fiery
frantic
impatient
sloppy
messy
aggressive
... to describe how they feel about the kiss:
nervous
excited
giddy
anxious
apprehensive
ambiguous
surprised
reassured
certain
confident
relieved
eager
greedy
... to show what the lips do:
exploring each other
brushing over each other
locking
devouring
touching
sealing
pressing against each other
capturing
lapping
tasting
crushing together
travelling (the other's body)
trailing (down to the other's chin)
grinning into the kiss
caressing
lingering
... to show how their body reacts:
feeling warm all over
buzzing
humming
pumping/palpitating heart
clenching lungs
joy bubbling up
tingly stomach
warm chest
burning cheeks
sweaty palms
blood rushing through their veins
... to describe what their hands are doing:
tangling in their lover's hair
wrapping their arms around their lover's neck
intertwining their fingers with their lover
resting on their lover's hips
pressing into their lover's shoulder blades
cupping their lover's cheeks
touching their lover's chin
curling their arm around their lover's waist
resting on their lover's shoulders
grabbing their lover's collar
sneaking up under their lover's shirt
brushing over their lover's bare skin
lightly squeezing their lover's butt
focus on:
the sensations instead of what's physically happening. (the protagonists might very well not know themselves what is happening exactly, but they feel very precisely)
I hope my personal experience drawing spamton can be helpful to you and anyone else who needs it
when I started drawing him back in 2021, other peopleâs spamtons looked super cool... but it felt like mine was never going anywhere. I would study the designs I liked the most and try to apply the features I wanted mine to have
even then, I struggled a lot (maybe I was also pushing myself a little too hard)
I was slowly getting better at drawing and I could see the progress I was making, but still I was not happy with my spamton. something was holding me back from getting where I wanted to be
then, about a year ago I realized something: I was forcing myself to draw him exactly the same way every time. in the end, I was scared to change what I was already used to drawing
consistency was what was killing me. and, ironically, being inconsistent helped me become more consistent
once I started not giving a damn and experimenting with drawing him in very different ways, I could look back at my drawings and feel proud instead of self sabotaging myself
another thing that helped a lot was not just studying other peopleâs designs, but looking at the in-game spamton and spamtons from the merchandise as well (even if you already have an ideal design in your head)
try to understand his ugly proportions, his weird shapes âwhat makes spamton spamton
to sum up, step out of your comfort zone + study the spamton sprites instead
do u have any stobotnik fic's you'd recommend? I feel like you would have amazing recs
Ahh, I went to check my bookmarks. Turns out I have 117 stobotnik fics there, so... too many. Here's a selection though!
Obviously Coffee and Mayhem. If this ship has a classic, it's this one! Unlike most fandom classics, though, this one is not sad as hell, so that's great! I read it in three days and I'm constantly waiting for more.
There's also the For Science! series. This one has a lot of smut, so be warned. Three fics, each one taking place during one of the movies. It is very sweet.
Laws of Motion is perfect. I want twenty more just like this one. Stone is kidnapped and Eggman goes detective mode. Cue rescue.
You've got to be kidding me? not gonna lie, mostly Stone whump. But there's comfort so fear not! Walters puts a shock collar on Stone to force him to spy on Robotnik. Stone's solution is to avoid the Dcotor. Yeah.
There's also What's an emerald but a precious stone? in which Robotnik has to save Stone from the wreckage of the giant robot at the end of the second movie!
(I think I'm seeing a pattern here. Huh. Sorry, Stone)
Aaaand A sign that you're important Robotnik is deaf. Goes through pre, during and post canon.
Like I said, I actually have a lot of bookmarked fics, this fandom is full of great stories! These are just some of them!
I remember on ao3 you mentioned you wanted to post Stan and Ford reacting to readers death, I wanted to ask if you could share it please?<3
grief wears your name | Stan and Ford react to reader's death
Grief hits everyone differently and the Pines family is no exception. Old men arent supposed to outlive you
a/n: certainly! thank u for reminding me, tw: death
Stanley
you'd think that a man whoâs been through as much as Stan Pines wouldâve learned how to process grief by now. but the thing about Stan is, he doesnât process it, not really. he pushes it down so deep that even he forgets itâs there, until it sneaks up and slams him flat on his ass.
fuck that, fuck everything, fuck this world
hell, he wasnât supposed to outlive you. not you. not with all the shit heâd done to his body over the years, the cigarettes, the cheap booze, the sleepless nights every time he looked in the mirror. it was supposed to be him first. the old man with bad habits and a lifetime of regrets weighing him down. that was the deal, wasnât it? you're too young, bright, stubborn, alive, you were supposed to outlast him. supposed to be there when his time came, rolling your eyes at his dramatics and holding his hand as he went. thatâs how it was supposed to go, fucking fuck
he got the call from someone he didnât recognize. a voice muttered words he couldnât make sense of. your name. your fucking name. his ears rang, his head spun and his fingers gripped the receiver tightly
âwhat the fuck do you mean, gone?â the person on the other end tried to explain, but Stanley slammed the phone back onto the hook before they could finish. no. no.
you couldnât be gone.
he saw you last week. he watched you smile at him across the counter, teasing him about his fez like you always did. he swore you winked at him before you left.
and now you were just. . . what? erased from existence?
grief had a way of making him ugly, uglier than he already saw himself. his hands shook as if heâd been drinking all night, but the bottle on the table was full and untouched. even the burn of whiskey couldnât numb this, so what was the point?
Stanley thought about the kitten heâd brought home when he was ten. it was starving, ribs like piano keys beneath its dirty fur, the meows little animal let out were so pitiful. he'd sworn heâd take care of it, even made a little bed out of an old shoebox and named it tiger. he fed it milk behind his dad's back. tiger died three days later.
Stan felt useless, he couldnât save anyone.
Stan hasnât touched the fez since you died. itâs sitting there on the bedside table, gathering dust. you used to steal it all the time, yanking it off his head with a grin. âthis thingâs ridiculous, Stan,â youâd tease, shoving it onto your head crookedly. âiâm the boss of scam now. bow to me.â and he always played along, rolling his eyes, calling you a pain in the ass, but you only laughed at that. that laughter was gone.
when Mabel asked him about you last night, he had to get up and leave the room because he wasn't ready for that. she was just a kid, trying to understand why the world was so unfair and he couldnât give her an answer because he didnât have one.
âgrunkle Stan? do you think. . . do you think theyâre still watching over us?â how could he tell her he didnât believe in anything like that anymore? that you were just gone, snuffed out, like youâd never been here at all?
Mabelâs curled in his lap like sheâs five again, clutching her sweater-covered arms around her knees, her face a swollen mess of tears and hiccupping sobs. her little voice is hoarse from crying and she tries to explain, through broken words, about the stupid sweater sheâd been knitting for you. she just finished it. it was supposed to be a surprise. she was going to give it to you tomorrow.
Stan wraps his arms around her, calls her âpumpkinâ in the softest voice he can manage, but it trembles. he squeezes his eyes shut so hard it makes his head hurt, he hopes if he can just keep them closed tight enough, none of this will be real. but it is. it fucking is. and he doesnât know how to tell a twelve-year-old that the world is this fucking cruel. he doesnât know how to admit he feels like that little boy again, the one with a kitten dying in his hands and nothing he could do to stop it.
he buries his face in Mabelâs brown hair and mutters some useless lie about how âitâs gonna be okayâ
Mabel's face against his chest as she sobbed. Stan held her tighter.
âi made them a sweater, grunkle Stan. i-itâs pink with little stars and they- they said they'd wear it when it got cold,â her sobs swallowed the rest.
what could he say to that? what the hell could anyone say? âthey loved your sweaters, kiddo. you know they did.â he wanted to picture you in that dumb pink sweater, smiling like you always did when you wanted to make Mabel feel special. but all he could see was you gone. gone. and nothing he could do would change it
Stanford
when he got the news about you, his meticulously constructed walls crumbled in an instant.
he sat at his desk, the journal open in front of him, its pages blurred by the tears he didnât realize were falling. his hands shook as he gripped the pen, but the words just wouldnât come.
heâd been taught from an early age that emotions were illogical. when he was younger, his father had told him to âquit being such a babyâ after Ford cried over a broken model ship. that lesson had stuck
he locked himself in his study, the same place heâd last seen you. everything was still exactly where it had been. the chair youâd sat in. the pen youâd picked up and fiddled with while listening to him ramble. heâd always been embarrassed by how much he talked around you, because words came so easily when you were there.
the guilt was eating him from inside
was it his fault?
had he been too focused on his work, too distracted to notice that something was wrong? had he missed a chance to save you?
he needed answers. needed to know. what had happened? why had it happened?
he buried himself in research, poring over every detail of the accident or the incident, as he came to call it. his obsession grew, consuming him. he didnât sleep. didnât eat.
Stan found him one night, hunched over the desk, muttering to himself about alternate dimensions and cosmic energy. âFord, this isnât gonna bring them back.â
Ford didnât respond because Stan was wrong.
Ford wasnât trying to bring you back. he was trying to rewrite the universe so youâd never been gone in the first place
Dipper tries to talk to him one day, pulling at the hem of his vest clumsily. âgrunkle Ford, is it okay to miss someone this much? like. . .this much that it hurts? my chest hurts.â
Stanford doesnât know how to answer that. he doesnât know how to explain the way grief wraps itself around your lungs and makes it impossible to breathe. âit is, Mason, it means they mattered.â
Dipper doesnât see how Ford presses his hands to his temples when he leaves.
Fordâs always been good at pretending heâs fine.
Fordâs grief was quieter, but no less consuming. the guilt, the helplessness, the horrible emptiness that stretched wider every time he thought about how heâd failed to protect you.
he couldnât stop thinking about all the times youâd parodied him, mimicking the way he pushed his glasses up his nose or how heâd say âactuallyâ before correcting someone. âactually, Stanford Pines, youâre so predictable,â youâd giggle, tapping the bridge of your nose in a mocking gesture
you used to drive him insane with it, in good way. his face would flush, his words would stumble, and heâd act all huffy while secretly loving every second. he never told you how much he adored the way you made fun of him
he found one of your notebooks the other day. it was tucked under a pile of his old research papers, pages scrawled with your handwriting. youâd doodled little caricatures of him in the margins, stick-figure versions of Ford with six fingers and exaggerated glasses, accompanied by sarcastic captions like, âthe nerdiest but prettiest man i ever knewâ
he stared at those drawings until his vision blurred from tears. then he shoved the notebook in a drawer and locked it.
...
Ford disappears the next morning.
he knows itâs selfish, leaving Stan and the kids to deal with all of this without him, a part of family, but he canât be in that house another second. the walls are suffocating. so he grabbed his coat, your coat, the one you used to borrow when youâd say his was warmer and walked, his feet already knew where theyâre going.
the woods. the same path you always loved, where the sunlight filtered through the trees beautifully, where you used to point out birds or mushrooms or anything that caught your curious eye. youâd tug on his sleeve to make him stop and look. and god, you were so beautiful when you smiled at him like that. Ford adored you.
Ford doesnât remember sitting down in the clearing where you used to spend time together, his knees in the dirt, fists clenched in the grass. he hadnât cried when he found out, hadnât even let himself feel it because there were too many faces looking at him like he was supposed to have answers. now thereâs nothing but the woods, only memory of you and the sound of his own ragged breathing breaking into loud sobs
Ford cries like a child. raw, aching grief pouring out of him in waves, making his glasses fog up, slipping down his nose and he doesnât bother fixing them. his body doesnât know how to process this kind of pain. his hands too busy clawing at the ground, hoping he could dig deep enough to find you again.
Ford Pines, the man who always thought he could think his way out of anything, is completely unmade.
he doesnât know how long he sits there, crumpled against the base of a tree. his hands tremble as he takes the notebook out of his coat pocket, the one he used to write down little things youâd say or do that he didnât want to forget. he flips through it now, pages ruined with his tears and it hurts worse than anything else. your handwritingâs there, little notes youâd leave for him.
âdonât forget your glasses!â
âyour hair looks cute today <3â
âi love you, Ford.â
he shuts the notebook and presses it to his chest, it's the only part of you he has left.
the stars above didnât care. the trees didnât care. the world kept turning, indifferent to the fact that youâd been torn from it.
and Ford was left there in the cold void, feeling smaller than he ever had in his life.
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