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cambion-companion · 11 months

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BG3 Companions on a Halloween Date

YES I was itching to do something for the BG3 gang for the season. You could say it's been bugging me. Hah. Ok sorry it's the influence of my pfp.

Let's start with

You want a cozy night in under the covers, watching scary movies (or puppet shows or whatever the heck is the equivalent in Faerun) but he's not sold on the idea. "I've seen enough horror to last me several lifetimes, darling."

Instead Astarion would take you out in the crisp Autumn air, under the distant sun, for a walk crunching through the dried leaves of brown and red.

He'd want to go to the pumpkin patch to find the perfect gourd for a Jack-o-Lantern.

When the sun set so very early in the afternoon, you'd retire back to your cozy abode and set to carving faces into your pumpkins.

Astarion of course would make short work of his, dexterous as ever with those knives, and he would do his best to shape the face into what he hopes he looks like.

Either that or, depending on where you're at in his character arc, he'd remake Cazador BEFORE gutting it and making a whole show of utterly eviscerating the poor Halloween decoration. "Astarion, this is supposed to be relaxing." "This IS my ideal downtime."

You want someone who will snuggle under the covers and watch Hocus Pocus with you? Wyll is your man. But sorry I'm trying to keep to a less modern AU.

Wyll seems like the kind of guy who would put on some fitting music as you two cooked together, dancing in the kitchen intermittently and almost forgetting to check on the cookies before they burned.

He's such a sweetheart, checking to make sure you're happy with just spending an evening indoors with him. "We can go out on the town if you desire, sweetheart." "No, Wyll, I've told you this is absolutely perfect."

Depending on the choices you've made with him thus far, Mizora might pop in to dip her finger in the batter and bamf out again, giving ya'll a cheeky wink. "Ta ta, love imps. You make me physically ill."

Sigh, you're back for more bones hm?

Alright I'll entertain you.

You ask Withers to dance to Spooky Scary Skeletons. He looks at you, unimpressed. "Get thee hence." "Wilt thou harass someone else?"

Ideally I would propose and she'd say "yes". Oh what? Sorry, I was miles away.

For a Halloween date. Hm. A corn maze. Definitely.

She'd be all about her tutelage under Shar's freaks followers and want to show off her sneaking skills.

It would turn into a game of hide-and-go-seek and then it'd get a little creepy before she'd inevitably pounce on you and you'd end of in a fit of laughter together.

"I wasn't going to hurt you!" "Well, Shaddy, sometimes I wonder." "Good to keep you on your toes, then." "Careful, I saw a pond on the way in."

Then you two would go and get some candied apples and chat about memories and flowers that bloom in the gloaming.

Oh Gale.

He'd love to read to you out of a classic gothic novel (cough cough Dracula cough cough) while you two cozy up under some blankets.

He'd probably get fresh with you and run a hand up your leg or something, OH SORRY this is post the patch that fixed that? OK. He'd wait an extra hour.

Tara would curl up next to you and listen as he read from the book, the firelight crackling and warming your bodies as the night grows dark outside.

Afterward he would ask if you'd like to be guided into the Astral plane where you can look down on the All Hallow's Eve festivities below.

yeah, gotta give Tiefling daddy some love. Especially since I still feel bad for massacring them all my last playthru.

Zevlor is another who has seen his fair share of horror, and he would opt to do something more lighthearted with you for a Halloween date.

He seems like a family kind of man, so I expect he would invite the whole gang over for a delicious dinner. Mol and her friends, Arabella and her parents. Rolan and Zorru and maybe even Auntie Ethel will sneak in there. Then it really WOULD be a Halloween experience.

After the dinner and the guests are snoozing or already left he'd wrap an arm around you and pull you close. "Would you accompany me outside? I would like to show you the stars and tell their tales. It's been so long since I've gotten to properly admire them. Or you."

Of course I have to include the daddy devil, who do you think I am?

Raphael would take you to a haunted house, of course. OF COURSE.

Hell, what better house that is haunted than the House of Hope?

It would be horrifying for you, since the no touching rules don't apply there, and most amusing for him.

You'd practically climb the cambion in your efforts to avoid the ghosties, especially that one who constantly says "huuuurt meeee, pleeeaaase."

Raphael would enjoy watching you squirm, and remind you such a fate would not be yours only IF you followed his rules.

Oh yeah, and maybe if you're lucky, or perhaps very unlucky, he'll invite you to his Boudoir.

Oak Father frowns on dissecting pumpkins for the sake of creating superfluous lanterns (or something...I heard it from a friend who heard it from a friend, ok)

Instead, Halsin would druid craft you vines and harvest fruits in whatever shapes, sizes, and colors you desired.

He'd also want to go trick or treating so BADLY. "But Halsin, you're eight feet tall and built like a linebacker. No one is going to mistake you for a kid." Then he'd cast Disguise Self and you'd be forced to take him out on the town in hunt of candy.

Poor guy didn't have much of a childhood and wants to experience the finer things in life. Get those king sized candy bars...just once.

You are a bit huffy, having expected a more...romantic evening than this. But he'll make it up to you later winkwonk , till you can bearly stand it.

You guys would get all CUTE and gussied up together.

Go out on the town.

Pick the best looking victim to be a sacrifice to Lolth.

Wait...what?

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catzspine · 1 year

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💥 Silly OC Info!! 💥

WIP: I'll add info about my spooky month OCs here! Lore, reference sheet, etc! I hope you guys like my OCs X3

(If you notice i made a spelling mistake, please do tell me).

1. Vilian Charlotte 🌿

[ They/Them ] [ 58 years old ] [ Human//Witch ]

>> Voice Claim <<

There's not much to say about their past other than how much they enjoyed going trick-or-treating dressed as the grim reaper. As time went by, Vilian started living in a small cottage in the forest, a place far away from civilization to perform their rituals in peace.

They has the ability to turn into a fireball, that way they's able to roam around the city without getting unwanted attention.....well....at least that's what they think, the citizens are starting to feel scared of the mysterious fireball flying around during midnight, and some are starting to connect the mysterious event with the tragic deaths of various children.

Relationship chart:

Vilian has not met any of the canon characters enough to form some kind of strong bond, however they had some interactions in the past with...

Dexter: Vilian has seen him and the way he treats animals, they feel disgust towards him and has scared them a few times in the past.

Skid and Pump: Being the curious kids they are, they found Vilian's cottage during one of their walks through the forest. Vilian enjoyed their company but they don't consider the kids as "friends".

[OC X CANON SHIP] Vilian x Eyes of the Universe: Crystal Ball 🔮

INSPO: Vilian is highly inspired by a famous mexican tale called "Las bolas de fuego" and El día del Brujo, a mexican celebration that takes place in Catemaco, Veracruz.

💚LIKES//💔DISLIKES:

💚 The stars

💚 Spiders, rats, any type of critter

💚 Making brigid dolls

💚 Collecting bones

💔 Half of the citizens

💔 Water

💔 Anyone who harms animals//bugs

💔 Crowds

#spooky month oc #spooky month fanart #catzoc #catzart

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methed-up-marxist · 1 year

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The Battle for Burrowed Air Control

They we’re close to the colony now, the distinctive sound of chitin scraping on chitin and the beating of legs against thorax filled the space around them more and more with each step. Shitarm felt nauseous, he thought nothing of it. Shitarm felt dizzy, he gripped Fuckjaw’s hand for reassurance. They advanced some more. With each step the nausea worsened, there was something inside him desperate to get out. Shitarm’s leg felt weak, he stopped. Fuckjaw took another step forward, gave a gentle tug of the hand as he went to begin his next, felt its hesitation and turned to look at his companion. “You alright hun?”. “I feel bad”. “Let’s get you up against the wall.” Fuckjaw remembered his executioner rank “so you can lean on it” he explained. Shitarm placed a hand on the wall, it was barely enough to stop him from falling over, he felt a sharp pain in his back, in fact all his bones had a certain tension to them. He was sweating profusely. “Somethings not right sir” was the last thing he said before rushing to pull his helmet off, vomit came out the minute there was space for it, a portion dribbling down his chin and the remainder ejecting itself squarely onto Fuckjaw’s chestplate.

Before there was time to be disgusted Shitarm screamed in agony, and a pair of chitinous pincers erupted out of the sides of his chest, shredding the armour with a horrific cracking noise, thick black segmented antenna grew from his head, his eyes were compound, his skin a horrendous mix of flesh and murky green carapace. Shitarm’s armour couldn’t withstand the force and crumbled all around him leaving just the tank top he woke up in with two vestigial wings hanging out the back. Shitarm’s mind found itself under siege as the hivemind of the bug capital pushed its way inside, control of his limbs gave out, then his eyes, finally even his ability to maintain the tension in his muscles and he fell against the wall, almost immediately rebooting as organ and tissue, neuron and blood were flooded with the consciousness of the hive, in the recesses of his mind he hid. Fuckjaw was horrified, originally approaching his friend slowly, then leaping towards him when his muscles gave out hoping to render aid only to step cautiously back in fear as he saw the antenna twitch and sluggish movement return. “Pup?” he asked, terrified what the response might be. Shitarm looked down at Fuckjaw, cocked his head to one side, hissed and leapt at him knocking him to the floor. Throwing arms up to defend himself, he just caught the pincer that came for his chest. Shitarm was still growing and could be held of , only for a time though and Fuckjaw knew himself essentially dead in the long run. An hour of combat with the boy his loved threatened itself and so he stroked his friend's arm, murmured a gentle goodbye and prepared himself to give up the fight. The commander’s familiar tenderness ripped through Shitarm’s body and he fell back straddling across the thighs (with unfamiliar eaze given his newfound dexterity!). Consciousness flooded its way back in at the familiarity of touch. Shitarm caressed his commander’s face and looked at him as lovingly as one can with compound eyes “Do you want this?” asked Fuckjaw. “What's left of me does”, Shitarm forced through psychic haze.Because i need this” a hissing followed (invertebrate ecstasy and hydraulic mechanism merged) as Fuckjaw’s groin plate finished its eject sequence and flung away landing amongst rubble on the other side of the tunnel.

A long protruding pincer ripped its way out of Shitarm’s right shoulder, just above where his vestigial wings sat. Perpendicular to his body and attached directly to his skeleton such that a bloody gorge of flesh 1 inch wide surrounded it as it exited his body, extending upwards until a good two head lengths above him and then arcing down intended to attack those in front. Shitarm smiled an overwhelmed smile at Fuckjaw, compound eyes dilated as they filled up with joy, nearly ripping apart - human physiological processes not used to the new structure.

Pincer plunged into Fuckjaws shoulder, he let out the following: a large gush of blood, a scream of delight and all the tension in his body. Shitarm twisted the pincer, lodging it deep in as he brought himself down upon Fuckjaw’s cock. Fuckjaw’s shoulder screams in pain, it passes its ways into his chest threatening to rip him apart as each neuron lights up in fire screaming for death but then this meets his groin, meets the pleasantness? Whatever it is it feels good and as the blood from his shoulder finally drips its way down to his matted dark grey pubic hair the mental image is complete cock and pincer are one and it's all just warmth. The pain, the nondescript pleasantness, all of it is just a fine mesh permeating his bod. He is sifted through it like sand endlessly called back to himself in granular form, the evisceration and the penetration both have him in tiny pieces every thought interrupted by a new wave of intensity, every continuity constantly punctuated by screams and moans and gasps. Nondescript is the wrong word, he has a thousand words to describe it “intense”, “arousing”, “hot” although he feels exhausted by the temperature metaphors. Fuck it’s good though and he looks up at his friend as he screams in pain (did that bitch just dig it even deeper in? I think he did) he’s so fucking hot “you look good as a bug babe” his joke earns him a right hand striking firmly across his face, the rapid beating of vestigal wings takes the place of a laugh that might both acknowledge the joke was ok and punish it even as it does so. Fuckjaw is flipped onto his front now, Shitarm leveraging the pincer in his shoulder to throw him into the air in motion, and then bring two pincers down on him, one deep in each shoulder, threatening to separate his arms from his body. Fuckjaw is slammed into the ground head and shoulders first, a small pool of his own blood cushioning the floor. Shitarm leans the pressure on, instinct is instinct and whether its hands on his shoulders or pincers in them he brings his hips up. He feels Shitarm’s dick sit on his hole for a second, Shitarm pushes in, but the angle seems to be wrong. A handful of blood is scooped up and 2 fingers are plunged in. Its still warm and he can fill it drip inside him, blep, blep… blep. Dick sitting on his hole again, Shitarm pushes it in and fuck, fuck. The warmth of the blood dripping through precedes the pressure of the cock sliding in inch by inch it progresses inside him and then rapidly out again, a vacuum erupts inside him the tension mounting in his body goes to cling to it, finding nothing Fuckjaw relaxes. Easier this time, faster too never quite leaving, back and forth, Fuckjaw’s insides are mashed and pummeled everything feels all gooey like the flesh of his body is slowly becoming a liquid, pulverised. The blood is threatening to coagulate, but Shitarm pushes through, delighted by the friction.

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honourablejester · 7 months

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Call of Cthulhu Character Concept: 1920s Funeral Home Dreamer

Because I just really wanted to try making a CoC investigator. I’m not sure what I intended to make initially, but browsing the occupations list gave me ‘undertaker’, and then I decided to roll for characteristics initially (I later added points on so the total would equal 460, as if for point buy), and that gave me a starting Appearance of 20, which is just above ‘ugly, possibly disfigured due to injury or at birth’, which gave me a bit of a starting seed. Then I was browsing the period names suggestion list, and saw ‘Asenath’, which I’d never heard before, and looked that up. And it’s a biblical name, but an Egyptian figure, so the name means ‘dedicated to the goddess Neith’. Which, in a Cthulhu setting, was … interesting.

So. Asenath Webber, a 34 year old assistant at her family’s funeral home in Arkham, Massachusetts, who has a troubled relationship with her brother since he permanently scarred her with embalming chemicals in an ‘accident’ as kids, and whose beloved uncle helped foster her education and interest in literature, history, and just a bit of the occult. Heh.

Call of Cthulhu Character Concept: Asenath Webber

Name: Asenath Webber

Occupation: Embalmer’s Assistant/Hearse Driver (Undertaker)

Age: 34

Gender: Female

Birthplace/Place of Residence: Arkham, Massachusetts.

Characteristics:

Strength 50, Constitution 80, Dexterity 60, Intelligence 50, Size 50, Power 70, Appearance 20, Education 80

(I initially rolled, then brought them up to total 460 as if for point buy (my original rolled total was 435), but the initial rolls are why her appearance is in the toilet. I could have brought that up, but I figured let’s roll with it)

Hit Points: 13

Magic Points: 14

Luck: 55

Sanity: 65

Move: 8

Skills Above Base:

Brawl 35%, Drive Auto 60%, Dodge 30%, First Aid 35%, History 65%, Intimidate 50%, Language (Own, English) 80%, Language (Other, Ancient Egyptian) 11%, Library Use 50%, Occult 65%, Psychology 40%, Science (Biology) 45%, Science (Chemistry) 51%, Spot Hidden 50%

Credit Rating: 20

Wealth: Average, Spending Level $10, Cash $40 ($10 on her, $30 glove box of the hearse), Assets $1000 (rented apartment ($10/wk rent), used car ($300), refrigerator ($49))

I did look up 1920s hearses to see if there was any option for the hearse to be the part of the family business she owned, but hearses are very expensive, so not a chance. She probably does have access to it, if she wants to alienate her family altogether, but I decided she’d have her own, used but in good condition, 1920 Chevvy Coupe that she keeps at Jo’s so the family don’t know about it. She keeps it mostly for the promise that when things with her brother finally degrade past saving, she can just bug out in her own car, and then the world will be her oyster.

Personal Description: A short, compact woman with bland features once you get past the shiny, twisted burn scar on her face. She smells faintly of chemicals, and tends to be faintly off-putting at the best of times. She’s usually found in driver’s coveralls or men’s clothing, which her family tolerate because she’s generally just not seen, at least not attached to the business.

Ideology & Beliefs: There are forces at work in the world, both evil and spiritual. When you work with the dead, you realise quickly that the body is a frail, useless, damaged thing. There must be more, a breath of some vaster thing, that makes us what we are.

Significant People: Eldridge Webber, her brother, with whom she has a tense relationship, to put it mildly. Edridge is the ‘& Son’ of the Webber & Son funeral home, and will inherit it once their father dies, and has made no bones about the fact that he’ll cut her loose to survive on her own once that happens. He’s also the cause of the scarring on her face, an ‘accident’ when he was 12 and she was 8, and he’d dared her to venture into the embalming room with him. She firmly believes that if her father wasn’t as traditional and had even once considered allowing a female to inherit the business, her brother would have arranged for a much more permanent ‘accident’ for her. Eldridge focuses on the business and glad-handing clients side of the funeral home, while their father still does most of the embalming, so she’s mostly given odd jobs such as driving the hearse and assisting their father in the embalming rooms. She’s almost fine with the knowledge that as soon as the business belongs to her brother, she’ll be out on her ear.

Barnabas Webber, her uncle, who taught her and sponsored her interests despite the ire from the rest of her family. He’s the one who taught her to drive, and the one who sponsored her education so she could get her English and History degree. Now that he’s dead, relations between her and the rest of her family have cooled significantly, not that they were good to start with. He used to be the second Webber in ‘Webber, Webber & Son’, but when he died, Josiah Webber, her father, simply removed that part of the name.

Josephine Razner, a friend from college and fellow spiritualist who shares Asenath’s fascination with history and the occult. Despite Asenath’s generally off-putting demeanour, Jo was delighted by her unusual name, and Asenath’s knowledge of its origins, and they hit it off. Jo is constantly encouraging her to leave the family business altogether and strike out on her own before Eldridge forces the issue for her, but Asenath still feels that would be disloyal to the family as a whole.

Roland Bleeker, a shady sort who has dealings with her brother, and who Asenath is 90% certain is a criminal of some stripe. Both he and Eldridge have attempted several times to get Asenath to do ‘deliveries’ in the hearse that are outside of business hours, and she’s refused them, which has done her relationship with Eldridge no favours either.

Meaningful Locations: Webber & Sons Funeral Home, Arkham. The center around which her world has revolved for almost her entire life, the cause of her worst scars, and the link to her most beloved person, her deceased Uncle Barnabas.

Secondarily, Miskatonic University, the site of some of the happiest times of her life, and the place she met Jo.

Treasured Possessions: A small illustrated copy of Lord Dunsany’s ‘Gods of Pegana’, with a handwritten note on the inside cover from Uncle Barnabas: ‘Dream all the things, dear one. Never stop. Uncle B.’ *(Key Backstory Connection)

Traits: Loyal. Not a lot of people are kind to Asenath, so she will move heaven and earth for the ones that are. She loved Uncle Barnabas with her entire body and soul, and she probably would kill people (or at least find some way to make bodies vanish) for Jo. She’s also stubborn and inclined to stick to her guns in general.

Injuries & Scars: Old chemical burn scars on her right cheek and jaw, deforming her mouth slightly, from an ‘accident’ as a child with the embalming chemicals.

History: From nearly the moment she was born, Asenath Webber’s life has been tied up in the family business, the prosperous Webber & Son funeral home. A dreamy, bookish, stubborn child, she wasn’t popular with most of her family, save only her mother (until her untimely death when Asenath was four) and her Uncle Barnabas, who she utterly adored and has missed terribly these last seven years since his death. After a childhood incident involving her brother left her with permanent scars from chemical burns on her face, she was shunted into the background of family life, away from the public. As a teenager, she had started training as an embalmer, at her father’s side, but her uncle managed to secure a college education for her at Miskatonic University, arguing that it would only enhance the family’s reputation to be able to send her. After her brother, of course, who studied accounting and finance, as befit the heir to the business. Asenath had other interests, however, and a fanciful streak, so her studies were in literature and history. Her own name, and lifelong experience with death, bodies, and the spirituality around them, had also inclined her to more … esoteric studies, and through these she met her dear friend Josephine Razner.

Once she had her degree, however, duty demanded that she return to the funeral home and put her back into the family business. She couldn’t be publicly seen, of course, she was off-putting and inclined to scare off clients, but she found roles as assistant embalmer and, through her talent with automobiles, driver of the funeral home’s hearse. After the death of her uncle, however, and her increasingly strained relationship with her brother as their father gets frailer and the time of his inheritance gets palpably closer, Asenath is looking more and more for a way out before she’s thrown out.

#call of cthulhu #CoC #character concepts #1920s #investigators #undertakers

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puckjay-blue · 3 months

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you ever play a solo ttrpg instead of working and accidentally write a short story that reads vaguely like a trans allegory? Anyways here's Julie, it's a short story I wrote using Fetch by Grant Howitt.

I am made of swamp. Where there would be fat they put peat and dirty water. My bone are dry wood, I break them every day. Where my voice goes in my throat there is a toad, ugly and mean, covered in warts. Mom thinks I am clumsy, and I stopped brushing my teeth. That the stench in my gut is some kind of condition. Jillian thinks I am sad. He brings me fresh roses to cover up the smell. I think he is still in love. But he might not have loved Julie that much if he hasn’t even noticed im not her. I noticed. I was brushing my teeth. The toad didn’t like that. He screamed and one of my teeth fell. When it hit my hand it was a rock. With a round, wet rock in my hand and an angry toad in my throat, I noticed I was not real. No one else did.

I look at the swamp too much. I can’t help it. It smells like things half-rotten, old leaves and still water. The trees are sparse but the reeds are thick, so thick the people need a wooden path to go through. It’s ugly. It stinks. I bet it would itch if I had any flesh for mosquitos to bite. It’s always there. The stench and the sounds of animals and bugs and, a year later, echos of screms long gone : « Julie ! ». It’s there the second I close the empty gashes I have for eyes. Because I am made of swamp, and of the echos still screaming for Julie.

I tried to tell Mom, I tried to tell Jillian not to follow. I wish they had listened. I wish they had noticed. That I am not Julie, that I was always going to leave, that I was always going to be gone, that I was never really there in the first place. That I look just like the swamp and nothing like Julie. I can hear them, behind me, somewhere. They sound just like the echos, « Julie ! Julie ! ». But I am not Julie, and they should have noticed. So I let the reeds take them. I give wordless permission to roots that feel like my own fingers to wrap around their ankles and throw them off the wooden path into thick, muddy water and I hope they drown.

I hate the toad. He doesn’t let me breathe. He chokes me on purpouse when I need to run or when I need to talk. I don’t need to talk anymore. I don’t need to run. So now the toad is quiet. But I won’t leave him be just yet. I guess as much as I am mad at everyone, I am mad at him. He made me notice. It’s his fault I am not Julie. The wood in my bones wants to reach into my throat and crush him until he pops into a puddle of clotted blood. The water in my lungs wants to hold a hand out to my mouth and leave him on a beautiful lillypad. I listen to the water and I say goodbye. I will know that there was a toad that noticed I was not Julie. I fucking hated that asshole toad, and he will be spared.

I keep walking and it smells like magic, and it itches. Hunched trees make crooked houses, often-trod paths push away the vegetation to reveal snakes of white clay-like sand. There are beds of clay with holes in them, about the size of coffins. One of them is the womb where I was borne. There are people here, people that are more people than in Julie’s home. They are not scared of being ugly. The leave mud caked between their six toes, kidlewood mat in their hair, moss suck and grow on their oily skin, bird bones and feathers stuck between their teeth. But they don’t have an attentive toad in their throat to notice me, sot hey are not scared because they don’t know that I am here.

They are here, in a bed of clay. Their hands are thin and long, dexterous and blue. I watch them make a pot, first a simple bol, a bit too deep and a bit too thin. They crumble it to make more clay. This one I realize will not be made of swamp. It will be made of smooth clay and careful craftsmanship. I look at blue hands as they make a vase and then they make a face. They make shapeless dirt into a me. They lay it down on the ground. They light a fire that dires my lung. When the fire touches the new me, it screams. It sounds like broken pots. They cackle, pleased, delighted. I break the last of my bones snapping their neck.

Julie shouts. Then she quiets, sits down and looks into the distance, dim and dull eyed. There is a beautiful clay necklace, carved with pretty patterns on her throat and I wonder why mine only had a toad. I wasn’t given precious dirt and careful hands, but she was. Even though she is dull and empty, even though she has not even a spark and I am a fire. She gets precious dirt and careful hands. I get mud and dirty water heaped into a quick pile. I wish she’d notice how unfair all of it is. She doesn’t, she is too sick, too far-gone. Goodbye, goodbye Julie, you lived a short life and I bet if you knew no one noticed you were replaced by an ugly pile of rotting swamp you’d kill yourself, so I’ll put you out of your misery.

Cley bed wombs and people who are too people to be people make the swamp sick, itchy, magic. I can feel it. Well, the murky water in my lungs told me. I think of the toad. I am made of swamp, I am made by this place. I know which one I like better, which one broke my bones and which one was broken. They are making smooth fired clay out of my swamp. The peat catches on fire and it doesn’t stop for the too-people-people. But i twill stop for the toad. The toad is too much of a dick to die like this. And he is too smart. I, well, I just set on fire the magic that made me smart, so I guess I’m not anymore. But I am not dead. I am made of swamp and the swamp is made of me.

#writeblr #writing #queer writers #writerscommunity #ttrpg #ttrpg recommendations #indie rp

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captainkingsley · 2 years

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Oh no I'm having au ideas.

Specifically an au idea where Lucien and Aldreda both go to Rexxentrum as children. Aldreda gets apprenticed to a jeweler, and Lucien tries to aim for the academy and in the meantime takes to busking the streets and does little performances. Juggling, dancing, singing, all the things his family used to do that Aldreda doesn't want to be a part of anymore, but she sees it makes him happy.

And Lucien makes friends with a young Bren, who attends the academy. Teaches him a little bit about magic, but when Lucien finally gets grasp on the concept it's because a very kind woman gifted him his oracle cards. Divination and cold spells come easy to him after that encounter. Bren just has to know about how it works, but Lucien can't explain it.

Bren gets picked by Ikithon. You know the ordeal. But his time in the Sanatorium is cut short because the same woman that gifted Lucien his cards helps Bren. He desperately searches for Lucien, and they leave the city together, traveling and building up personas for themselves.

They stumble on the circus. Lucien says it's a lifestyle he's used to, and he and Bren could use it as a cover for their travel. They convince Gustav to let them in, Bren's good with numbers, he can balance the books, and Lucien can do just about any little act the circus needs, he can juggle, dance, sing, tell fortunes, throw a bit of magic around!

They give Gustav fake names. Lucien says 'Caleb Widogast' is a pretty boring name. Bren tells him that 'Mollymauk Tealeaf' is almost as ostentatious as Lucien's new coat. They stick with the carnival, travelling across the Empire. They pick up Yasha, who becomes quick friends with Molly and Caleb both.

Caleb gets into a scrap in one town. Gets a night in jail, befriends a goblin and brings Nott into the circus. Nott's a great shot, and Gustav works a marksmanship act into the show. Molly meets another tiefling with a penchant for mischief, and Jester joins in and helps make the circus that much brighter with illusions and bright lights.

They meet Beau, who can tell her family is at their wit's end with her. She jumps ship and joins the circus, too. Turns out her dexterity is pretty good for things like tightropes and trapezes. Then there's Fjord, who has a sword he can make disappear, and Gustav jokes about pulling off a deceptive sword swallowing act. Fjord joins in because to be honest, he kind of wants to get away from whatever is chasing him at sea.

And then one show goes wrong and they need the help of a nearby cleric, and so Caduceus joins in with the intention to only use the circus to help him find where the Wildmother wants him to go. Also, dancing bugs and his bone flute. Imagine.

Anyway, m9 circus au.

#might draw some stuff for this. it would be cute

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mg549 · 2 years

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zombies who died in different eras n still dress in the fashions of the time 😳 (inspired by jakks pacific's 2013 zombie girls line! some are redesigns some r original ^-^)

in order!

1950′s: Red Scarry was beheaded after being suspected of being a communist during the red scare. Now wears a green ribbon around her neck to keep her head from falling off. The nerd and conspiracist of the group. Her favorite color is green, and she is a bookworm at heart (she even has a bookworm in her actual heart!).

1960′s: Dawn Tumble met her untimely end after falling during a cheer competition. Although her broken bones sometimes inconvenience her, she enjoys eeking others out with her extra dexterity. The romantic and prep of the group. Her favorite color is red, and she hates having her name called last name first.

1970′s: Monty Everett got cold feet while skiing down a mountain and froze in place. While his frostbitten face and fingertips make him look cold, he actually has a very warm heart. The shy one of the group. His favorite color is blue, and he really doesn’t understand why discothèques went out of style.

1980′s: Rhoda Kill learned the hard way about the dangers of being distracted near drivers, accidentally dancing in the streets at just the worst time. Luckily she thinks the tire tread across her outfit and skin adds flair to her new wave fit. The bubbly and excitable one of the group. Her favorite color is purple, and her favorite hobby is choreographing new routines to old songs.

1990′s: Asher K.A. Tack had a gnarly wipeout when a tiger shark decided to make a snack out of her, and right when she was about to land first place at Mavericks. She doesn’t let her bites slow her down though, even if it bites. The sporty and chill one of the group. Her favorite color is yellow, and when she’s not on the waves she likes to dress in comfortable layers while playing her gameboy.

2000′s: Chell Venom got bit by a computer bug- specifically a brown recluse that was hiding in the cd drive in her clear pink computer tower. Tries to hide the veining all over her from the bite with strawberry-scented roll on body glitter. The posh and prissy one of the group. Her favorite color is pink, and she’s never left the house without spare lip gloss.

2010′s: Roxy Hart died after rocking out too hard- specifically, the music she was blasting at the side of the road caused a landslide. Although parts of her are flattened, she’s still totally deep and tortured on the inside. The emo and artistic one of the group. Their favorite color is black, and no, you can’t look in their sketchbook, it’s not finished yet.

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hazza-bear-care · 4 years

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Bound to Adoration

A/N: I came up with this idea when I was high, so I hope this makes sense in execution.

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: Reader went out for a girl’s night and comes home crossfaded. Steve isn’t happy, Bucky and Reader try to calm him down.

Warnings: Mentions of drug use and drinking

~~~~

The night was amazing. After months and months of excruciating and time consuming missions, (Y/N) was very happy for the opportunity to go out for a night of fun with a group of her girlfriends. Club hopping was a good idea on paper, but not in execution seeing as all 6 women were stumbling through the streets wearing ridiculous heels. At the third club, the group decided to make that one the end of their clubbing journey, the sticky vinyl booth their home for the rest of the night.

“(Y/N)! Wanna go smoke a joint really quickly? I promise we’ll be back soon.” Nodding, the girls slipped out of the booth and to the front entrance of the club, the blunt already blazing. The air around them was cold, but that was soon forgotten as the skunky smell surrounded the girls with each inhale, the weed and alcohol mingling nicely. (Y/N)’s head was fuzzy, her already cheery mood boosted even more due to the joint that was rolling through her fingers. A few moments later, the joint was snuffed against the brick wall of the club and the pair decided to head back into the sweaty atmosphere of the building behind them to enjoy the rest of the partying time.

At 3 a.m., the six girls decided to call it a night after two decided to participate in a vomiting contest. They split up into two Ubers and (Y/N)’s friend sparked up another blunt, of course after confirming that it was okay with the man driving the car. The little sedan was soon hotboxed to the max, a steady cloud of weedy air settling over the group. (Y/N) took one last hit as the Uber pulled up to the gate of the Avenger’s compound.

“Do you want me to walk up with you?” The driver asked, being the only sober one in the car.

“No thank you. I appreciate it though! Night, guys!” (Y/N) got out of the car and winced at the sharp gravel under her bare feet, her heels tucked securely under her arm. She started to shiver as she punched in her gate code, the warmth of the compound seeming too far away. With a groan, she pulled out her phone and dialed the only number she could think of for whenever she had a long night.

“Where are you?” Natasha grumbled, picking up after barely half a ring.

“Just inside the gate. Took an Uber tonight.” (Y/N) responded as she tried to mask the sound of her chattering teeth.

“You’re cold. I’ll come grab you in a few.”

“Bring a hoodie!” (Y/N) finished, a light chuckle coming from the other end of the phone before Natasha hung up. Two minutes later, Natasha’s sports car was in front of the crossfaded girl. She stumbled over to the passenger side of the car and was immediately met with warm leather, Natasha’s perfume, and a soft fleece thing thrown at her head.

“Did you have fun?” Natasha asked, waiting patiently for (Y/N) to put on the jacket before driving up to the compound.

“Oh yeah, Nat. It was fantastic and very much needed.” (Y/N) slurred, the warmth of the car and the jacket comforting her so much that she almost fell asleep in Natasha’s car.

“I’m not the only one awake, sweets.” (Y/N) didn’t have to ask what she meant. Bucky and Steve never went to bed on nights their girl decided to go out, needing the assurance that she would come home safe.

“I know, Nat. Do you have any spray or something? I smell like weed.” Natasha nodded with a laugh, handing the loopy girl a bottle of body splash. After practically bathing in the spray and suffocating Natasha, the two girls exited the car and walked into the compound. Everything was quiet, almost too quiet even for (Y/N)’s crossfaded brain. She made her way to the elevator, the glass room taking her and Natasha to their respective floors and (Y/N) couldn’t have been more excited to see her men. Natasha’s floor came first, the fiery red head bidding her companion goodnight. (Y/N) used the last three minutes of her elevator ride to mentally prepare for the lecture she would get from Steve about how bad drinking and smoking are for your body and blah blah blah. She wouldn’t deny it, but it makes life more fun.

“Well, I hope you had fun, (Y/N).” Bucky and Steve were waiting for her to get off the elevator before cornering her in their room.

“I did. It was great. Thank you guys for letting me go out.” Slurring again, she stepped into the room and began discarding her clothes, opting her skin tight party dress for a pair of comfy sweats and a tight tank top.

“You smell like sweat and weed, (Y/N),” Steve grimaced as he watched her undress, marveling at her dexterity. Whenever she drank at one of Tony’s parties, she drank so much that Steve literally had to carry her back to the room.

“And what’s wrong with enjoying a little high now and then?” (Y/N) teased, wrapping herself in one of Bucky’s hoodies before fluttering to the bathroom.

“Well, nothing, but do you have to do it as often as you do?” Steve asked from his place by the bedroom door. (Y/N) froze.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, (Y/N) I’m not. Every night you come home and you reek of marijuana. It gets to be too much sometimes.” (Y/N) dropped the wet rage she had just placed to her face in order to remove her makeup, storming back to where Steve was still standing.

“I can’t believe you! I was expecting a lecture, but not an accusation, Steve!”

“What are you talking about? I know that this is what you’re doing whenever you go out (Y/N)!” Steve’s voice started rising, not caring that the rest of the compound was asleep.

“Steve, this is the first time she’s been high in front of you,” Bucky chimed in, the brunette spilling one of (Y/N)’s secrets.

“What? You’ve seen her like this before?” Steve asked, shocked that Bucky had seen their girl in this shape before.

“Stevie, I’ve been high in front of Bucky twice. He had to come pick me up the last time I hung out with my girlfriends because I knew you’d be worried if I didn’t come home.” Steve was still dumbfounded by what he was hearing. He trusted her with her friends, but she didn’t have to come home if she knew it wouldn’t be smart.

“And the second time would be tonight,” Bucky finalized. He enjoyed (Y/N) when she was high; she was funny and ridiculously horny, but because she was under the influence neither Steve nor Bucky would act on what she was feeling.

“But you smell like weed after you hang out with your friends?”

“Because they smoke more than I do and they smoke around me. I never partake as often as I used to before I met you guys. I may call you ‘Daddy’ in bed, but I don’t actually need you to act like a father, Steve.” In a flash Bucky was up off the bed, his metal hand tightening around her neck.

“Oh no, Doll. You’ve got it mixed up: I’M Daddy. Steve is Captain. Or do we have to remind you?” Bucky teased, his thumb traveling to her mouth and dipping behind her lips, the metal cool on her tongue. The healthy mix of alcohol and weed dancing in her body made (Y/N) shiver at the commanding tone spilling from Bucky’s lips. The soldier smirked and patted her cheek, resuming his position on the bed and leaving (Y/N) pressed up against the wall.

“I hate you, Bucky. I’m going to take off my makeup now.” Stumbling into the bathroom, (Y/N)’s hazy mind could only flash pictures of her intimate moments with her super soldiers, the projections making her weak in the knees. She knew neither of them would act on their feelings with the state she was in, but she could almost guarantee a frustrating day of teasing coming soon. Once her face was clean and moisturized, she went back into the bedroom where her favorite people were already laying; Steve on the left and Bucky on the right with a warm spot between them just big enough for her to slip into.

With the excitement of the night now completely worn off, (Y/N) was tired. She crawled quite ungracefully to her place in bed, the neediness and desire for attention settling comfortably in her bones as she snuggled under the duvet. After bugging for five kisses each from Steve and Bucky, and a LOT of fruitlessly convincing them that she was sober enough for a little more fun, (Y/N) snuggled into Bucky’s arms as Steve read A Tale of Two Cities to both of his loves until they fell peacefully asleep.

As much as he hated the smell of marijuana, Steve honestly couldn’t imagine his life without the little extra flavor (Y/N) added to his life. He was happy that she was happy and he’d do anything to keep her that way, even if it meant buying her a dispensary of her own. With a smile on his face, he kissed her and Bucky softly, wrapping an arm around his loves.

“Love you, Stevie.” A quiet mumble fell from (Y/N)’s lips as Steve settled into bed.

“Ditto, princess. Ditto.”

#avengers imagine #captain america #bucky barnes imagine #stucky x reader #marvel imagine #Steve Rogers #winter solider imagine #tony stark #bruce banner #thor odinson #captain marvel

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imagine-loki · 4 years

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The sniffles

TITLE: The sniffles CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: ONE SHOT AUTHOR: fanfictrashdump ORIGINAL IMAGINE:

After the Chitauri attack on New York, imagine Loki being sentenced to public service on Earth, specifically in aiding people who got hurt during the attack. His magic has been limited to only be enough to aid keeping Odin’s spell in place so he wouldn’t turn blue. His task is to help people with special needs, to do house chores, help them get around, do their grocery and keep them company while they recover. He is assigned to a girl who ended up blind after one of the Chitauri shot at her.

Imagine that against everything you both thought possible, Loki gets the flu.

RATING: T NOTES/WARNINGS: It’s getting to be chilly season, so the flu is lurking about. Get your flu shots! Be careful! Socially distance! Language, maybe? Mostly fluff. Mentions of illness? (Do people tag that?) Not beta’d or edited, really–probs lots of typos.

SUMMARY: Loki gets sick, though he insists it’s just allergies. Charlie puts on her bossy pants and shows Loki she’s a bamf. Loki is a Nervous Nelly.

Loki had nearly frowned himself into an alternate dimension when it first happened–a simple sneeze. He had been sorting through some paperwork that Stark had asked him to complete, a mindless task meant to keep him occupied under the guise of his rehabilitation. With a shrug, Loki aired out the papers, assuming dust had tickled his nose for the briefest of moments, but thought nothing more of it.

Two years into his exile to Midgard and working under the tech guru, Loki had pretty much worked off his sentence in Tony’s eyes. According to anyone with half a brain, depriving Loki of his magic, the major condition of his exile, was punishment enough for the Prince (Loki would never admit that the act of cleaning a whole kitchen to perfection on his hands and knees was methodical and soothing, but it was one of the many joys of his near mortal existence). Still, it turned out that Stark was a bleeding heart and could recognize the tell-tale signs of a son who never got proper validation from their father (or enough hugs). It could have also been the fact that the former hissing-serpent-of-an-Asgardian all but turned into a golden retriever after he fell in love. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that Stark was deathly afraid of the five-foot-nothing woman Loki now shared an apartment with, and who would most definitely cause him bodily harm for overworking her boyfriend.

All in all, within the constraints of this supposed punishment, everything was wonderful.

Then, Loki sneezed again.

And continued to do so.

But, of course, he wasn’t ill.

Achoo!

Charlie started, letting out a half-strangled shriek that soon turned into a groan as objects clattered on her desk. Her jaw clenched together so tightly, she thought her teeth would crack.

Now, Charlie wasn’t irritated that her dork alien of a boyfriend was sneezing in her presence while she was trying to get work done. No, she was irritated because she had sent him to bed (again, for the sixth time) twenty minutes ago when his fever and chills started to turn him into an unintelligible, hallucinating mess. She thought she had been quite clear in her order for him to get some rest. After all, it had been three days since Loki first sneezed, and though he had brushed it off as a bad case of seasonal allergies, his denial was starting to get ridiculous, not to mention, harmful.

Turns out thousand year old demigods-turned-mortal are no better at following orders than any other man on the planet. In fact, Charlie was pretty sure he was being more of a brat than any other mortal… not that she’d ever tell him.

Pushing away her keyboard, she stood away from the desk, taking a second to orient herself and stare in the general direction she had heard the sneeze come from.

She schooled her facial expression into what she hoped was a no-nonsense expression. “Go. Back. To. Bed.”

Loki grumbled, his voice particularly hoarse and gravelly with an added nasally quality from his blocked passages. “It’s allergies and I have things to do,” he retorted stubbornly, ignoring the fact that his whole world seemed to tilt ever-so-slightly with each step he took.

“Allergies, my ass. Loki Odinson, you have the flu. You belong back in bed. Don’t make me be the bad guy here.”

He let out a half-hearted snort, pretending that he did not at all feel the need to double over and repeat whatever little breakfast he was able to get down his gullet that morning. “I am not sick. I haven’t been sick in four centuries. Your sorry Midgardian microbes cannot infect me.”

“Yeah, when you had your full powers. Now, though–”

“I’m fine-d.”

It was a small, momentary miracle that Charlie wasn’t able to see the way he swayed on a spot, holding his head pathetically against the sudden bout of vertigo that assaulted him. At least he thought she couldn’t. Though Loki could not explain the fact that her hand grasped him by an elbow a moment later with what appeared to be no difficulty. Clearly he was off his game, and he didn’t even bother complaining when Charlie half-dragged him all the way to the sofa and forced him to sit.

He couldn’t help but smile at the brows knitted together in worry or the lower lip being chewed within an inch of its soft, supple life. The extreme gentleness and care she took in smoothing back his hair and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead made his stomach twist in the most pleasant way. This was the best antidote, he supposed, just watching her fuss over his shivering body. Loki certainly wasn’t used to being taken care of in this manner. It felt almost wrong to succumb to the desire of slumping into the pillows and letting her dote on him.

“I love you,” slipped from his lips before he was even aware that his brain had attempted to convey the message.

Charlie beamed in response, cheeks turning warm copper with a blush. Her fingers trailed down the sides of his face to cup his cheeks. “I love you, too, sweets, but if you don’t stay still and rest, I will put on Stark’s suit and make you.”

Loki smirked, twining one of her curls around his finger and letting it bounce back with a gentle tug. “Have I told you how attractive I find you when you get all bossy?”

“Only every single second this week, Lo.”

“Well, I firmly believe in truth-telling, dove,” he added, voice betraying the exhaustion that seeped into his bones. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought that the gentle circles she drew around his temples were some sort of ancient magic. “I’m late for work,” he protested, making an effort to sit back up. He would admit that they way Charlie shoved him back onto the cushions was a little distracting for two entirely different reasons: one, he was weak enough that Charlie could push him down like it was nothing; and, two… it was sort of… sexy. He would take them both to his grave.

“I called Tony and told him you were sick.”

Loki frowned. “What did he say?”

“He asked FRIDAY to queue up ”Ding dong! The witch is dead“,” she joked, lips tugging up in a smirk. “He said to take the week off. No one needs your Asgardian super bugs rolling around the Tower.” Charlie’s lips pressed against his forehead, followed immediately by a sigh. “You’re burning up again, Loki.”

“Everything hurts,” he conceded in a small voice, feeling like a failure when the concern etched in her features deepened further.

Charlie took in the complaint with a resolute nod.

“OK. I’ll go to the pharmacy down the street for some medicine and some electrolytes. You get some rest.” She patted his cheek and made to stand when Loki’s hand wrapped around her wrist.

“I’ll come with you.” He assured, at once, hoping the edge of nervousness wasn’t obvious in his voice.

“Nice try, super spreader.” Her fingers peeled his, dexterously. “No. Get some rest. I’ll be back in twenty.”

“But–”

“I promise you I will be fine, Loki. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

Loki was still reluctant as he watched her cool and confident expression. He shifted awkwardly. He knew that Charlie was entirely capable of any task and she had adapted well to the technology available to her as a non-seeing person, but… Norns, he was just a pathetic mess when it came to her. The thought of anything happening to her… “I know, but–”

“You worry. I understand, but this is important, Loki. You’re important and you’re sick and you need me to go get you medicine.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against her hand for a long moment before finding the courage to speak. “Just… be careful, alright? Maximum alertness, yeah?”

“I promise,” she assured in a whisper, leaning in to kiss his crown. “Please get some rest until I get back.” Her fingers were back to scratching his scalp, combing through his shaggy locks until he could no longer fight against the heaviness of sleep. He uttered half a protest before drifting off, leaving Charlie to cover him up with the spare blanket she kept on the sofa and tucking him in.

Charlie would not say that she was nervous about going out without Loki, but she was certainly not not nervous. She wrapped herself up warm to ward off the autumn chill and triple checked her belongings: keys, phone, card wallet, cane. Her head turned over her shoulder on instinct, as if attempting to spare a glance at Loki sleeping on the couch, before she closed the door behind her.

Loki awoke with a start what felt like an eternity later. His hair was sticking out in all directions and his clothes felt like they were pasted to his body with sweat. He was no longer on the couch, but in bed, and he felt… marginally better. Still, his heart was thumping loudly against his ribcage with a sense of uneasiness.

Charlie.

Where was Charlie?

“Oh, gods, please no.” It was too still. Too quiet. “CHARLIE!?” He called frantically, kicking the covers off of himself, despite the fact that his head disliked his sudden change in momentum. He grit his teeth against the nausea that rose immediately after. He needed to get out of bed and–

“Oh, you’re up!” Charlie chirped happily from the doorway.

His head snapped toward her voice to find her standing with a tray and very carefully balancing a bowl of soup, a sports drink and a bottle of water atop it. The grace with which she was managing to balance the liquids over the wooden serving tray was uncharacteristic–Charlie had never been particularly poised due to her impatience and going blind had not helped matters. After a minute, she placed the tray beside him on the bed and managed to sit down without any major spillage. Loki beamed at the satisfied look on her face and the anxiously flitting and hovering gaze she got when she was particularly excited.

“You’re back,” he breathed softly, fingertips trailing over the hand resting closest to him.

“I was only gone for fifteen minutes.” Charlie giggled. “Do you not remember taking your medicine and coming to bed?”

Loki shook his head before remembering his replies had to be aloud. “Er… no. No, I don’t.”

“You were pretty out of it,” she admitted, not thinking anything of it. “We had a lot of extra veggies, so I made you soup.”

He swallowed at the lump in his throat to no avail as he watched the perfectly cubed pieces of vegetables floating in a golden broth. He could practically feel her efforts radiating off the bowl with every plume of steam that rose enticingly. “You cooked?” His voice caught slightly.

“Yeah. Don’t tell me if it’s no good. It took me forever to chop things, so I might actually cry,” she replied, only half serious.

He picked up the bowl and tentatively sipped at the broth, letting out an involuntary moan when the rich taste flooded his taste buds. “Charlie, it… it’s perfect. It’s delicious.” The satisfied grin she gave in response made the remainder of his pain float away like dandelion fluff. He sipped some more before letting out a contented sigh as his bones warmed. “You are a wonder of wonders, Charlotte Camden.”

Charlie snorted. “I went to the pharmacy and managed not to burn down the apartment. I am middling, at best.”

“Say what you want, but I am proud of you,” he whispered, enjoying the blush on her cheeks as he slurped down the rest of his soup.

He knew she was secretly pleased with the praise, even if she didn’t admit it. Loki was aware that he worried all too much about giving her extra independence with all the what-ifs that popped up in his head. She was always so eager to challenge herself and had proven time and again she was capable of so much more than what she did on a daily basis. Loki was still in her life because she desired it, not because she needed anything from him.

For goodness’ sake, here she was, minding him.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Charlie. I feel restored, already.”

“Finally, he admits illness!” She snickered under her breath while Loki grumbled. “Of course, Loki. It is my distinct pleasure.” She leaned in just enough to prompt Loki to proffer his cheek, skin warm from the flush that could only half be attributed to the warmth of the broth. Her fingers trailed over his scalp, making him shudder from head to toe. “Drink all your fluids and back to bed,” she ordered gently before disappearing back out the bedroom door.

Loki wasn’t used to being taken care of like this but… he could get used to it.

#Loki #Lover #Others #Submitted one shot #submission #the sniffles #fanfictrashdump

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treasurestation · 4 years

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Blue Flag, with doyoung and yedam.

Note: this does follow Ao No Flag, yet there are minor plot changes such as time setting! You don't have to read Ao No Flag unless you want to! The plot was to be described a bit, Maybe? Hopefully— through my writing!

Dialogue heavy!

For the first time since third grade, they share a classroom together. It's Doyoung that shone with genuine appreciation it: smile wide, enough to make Yedam feel something — something other than a sense of guilt, guilt for feeling insecure. Although he shouldn't be. They're completely different people, not at all the same— and yet.

Doyoung's hands grab his shoulders when he raises his voice, and shouts out his name; Yedam's body moves on it's own, jumping toward to Asahi, his face paling, and heart hammering.

Doyoung laughs, and it does something to Yedam's heart. Makes his gut churn, and fists tighten.

“What class are you in, man?” Doyoung asks, his smile is wide— and his eyes are curled, and his face is bright beneath the sun beating down on him, it shone yellow high in the sky. Doyoung looked happy, and Yedam wishes he wasn't— only for a moment.

“Class A,” He replies, heart calming down from the scare. Palm rubbing over his chest, over his uniform— heart beating under his palm, drumming against bone, hard. Doyoung's face shifts, into something like surprise, or— Yedam doesn't know, he really doesn't.

Doyoung's arm wraps around Yedam's shoulder, pulling him into his side. “Woah! We're in the same class? That's crazy! Haven't been since the third grade!” He says, voice heightened. Laced with appreciation, or maybe, gratefulness. He smiles.

Then it shifts.

Voices call out for Doyoung, and he goes. Just as easy as he came, and it makes Yedam stare after him; Doyoung walking into arms, into his friends—

“‘Sup to you too, Yedam,” A friend of Doyoung's says, staring down at him. A smile on his face. Yedam's shoulders bunch up, and he smiles, doesn't feel right on his face. “... Uh, thanks. You too.”

He's unaware of the eyes watching. Burning on Doyoung, then on him.

—

During lunch, Asahi and Haruto pry. Not that they usually do, it's just different when it's about Doyoung, Haruto asks— “Hey... Something's been bugging me,” A beat of silence, “how are you and Doyoung such good friends?”

Yedam stops eating, thinking before he speaks, “We're been best friends since primary school,” and maybe that's why his heart does something for Doyoung, “but I don't think we're that close.”

Yedam really doesn't know— maybe they were close before. But they grew out of it, their closeness. Or maybe, it's a closeness that became one-sided, on Doyoung's part, or maybe on Yedam's part,— or maybe they've never really been close— his thoughts don't stick together anymore after that, Haruto speaks up again, “Nah, you both seem to get along well. Even though you are a completely different ‘class’, right”

“‘Class?’” Yedam's brow furrows. Face shifting, eyes staring— what did he mean? Class?— Yedam just, he doesn't know. It makes his heart drop, a bit. “Yeah,” Haruto shrugs, finger pointing out the classroom window, down onto the field outside.

Doyoung is out there, in his uniform playing soccer. The sleeves rolled up, and beads of sweat formed on his skin, the sun beating down, and other boys chasing after him. His forearm wipes his skin, the people out there cheer him on— Haruto continues, “Because that Doyoung... Has unrivalled skills in the baseball club, and his dexterity is above most, as well. He has great manners and a sense of humor so the girls are always fawning over him–” And it gets Yedam thinking. Really thinking. Heart sinking as he does. “He's someone who makes the most of life.”

“And yet he doesn't have a girlfriend, does he?” Asahi says, slow, curious. But not really caring. Just, curious.

Haruto jokes, “Maybe he just loves to lead people on,”

That makes Yedam lose his appetite, shoving his sandwich into his lunchbox, his face scowls. And Asahi pales, leaning toward Yedam, Yedam's voice lowers, sinks. “Stop it, Haru... Doyoung isn't that kind of guy.”

Haruto leans toward him, finger touching his forehead, “Maybe. But he's on a completely different field than us,” A beat of silence, and Yedam's heart is sinking so low into his gut, “You are being used.” Yedam wishes Haruto never spoke. His heart sinks as well.

A boy shouts. And clutter is loud. Echoing everywhere in the classroom.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing!” A dark-haired boy has a finger pointed at a light-haired boy, voice deep. Irritated, and angered. The light-haired boy points his finger at the dark-haired one, “... He pushed me!” It comes out quick.

Someone:s voice echoes, “(name) hasn't even eaten half,”

Your lunch lays on the floor— scattered, and you're picking it up, face flushed— burning red, cheeks colored so deep, Yedam begins to think it hurts. Yedam lowers his brows, the side of his mouth raised. He doesn't really like you.

Your friend, her voice is low, has a softened edge lingering beneath, “Are you okay, (name)?” You don't answer, just continue picking up your food. Burning beneath her gaze, and everyone else's. “Apologize properly to (name).” She says, and the light-haired boy raises his voice, “It's her fault for always eating so slowly, and always diddy-dallying!”

And your friend's face hardens. She's always been scary, Yedam thinks. And her voice goes even lower, anger lulled low, humming beneath. “Huh? It's your fault for rampaging through here!”

A voice perks up, mocking, taunting. “Ah, it's the gorilla girl run,” And they snicker beneath palms, the boys move. Run toward their desks.

Asahi asks, quietly, “Was that (name)'s lunch?” And Haruto clicks his tongue, “Looks like it.”

Yedam stares at you, just watches. The burning of your skin, your blush infectious. “As always, (name) is stupid and slow...” Yedam says, and it makes Asahi stare at him like he's grown another head, and Haruto calls out Yedam's name.

“Yeah?” He turns around. Eyes curious, wondering— “I have another question, why don't you like (name)?”

Asahi speaks, easing his way in, “You're pretty cold to that girl, aren't you?”

“I don't mean to be...” It's true. That much is very true. And Haruto says something Yedam doesn't get that quickly, “Even though you like small animals,”

“Huh?” His hand rubs over the nape of his neck, smoothing down the hairs. “(name) kind of seems like a small animal, doesn't she? Kind of like a hamster.” Asahi brightens up at that, and looks your way. “Ah. Hamster-ish girls.”

“Hamster girls?" He questions. Looks your way too— your hands are clasped together, and your face is still red. “Hamster lady?” That makes Asahi stare Haruto down, Haruto says, “Nah, that's wrong, right, Asahi?��

Yedam has so many questions. But he doesn't ask. He just, he doesn't know. He doesn't—

—

He walks down a hall toward his classroom. Wondering what the problem was— his relationship with Doyoung was the problem. That he hadn't changed, but was of a different ‘class’.

Then he thinks of you. How long he's known you, yet hasn't really known you— he's always been in the same classroom as you. Your eyes had met often. You never really spoke to each other— Yedam halts, gazes absentmindedly out the window. His reflection staring back. You're slow. And always looking down— and it's exactly like—

“Whatcha’ looking at?” Doyoung's face is suddenly too close, and it makes Yedam jump back. Doyoung laughs easily, “You're such a wimp, Yedam!”

“You always appear so suddenly!”

“Ah, really? Sorry.” Yedam wonders why Doyoung's face softens when he rubs the back of his head. They walk into class together.

The voices again. They tell him he's amazing, and he's good, and they question why he's so good, and what can't he do?— and he stutters a bit— “W–well,”

Yedam just, he doesn't know. It's not like he doesn't like Doyoung, they just don't get along anymore— Yedam walks toward his desk, without saying anything. Misses the way Doyoung falters, the way he stares after him.

Your desk is beside Yedam's.

—

Yedam finds you.

At the library near school. Reaching high, on a stepping ladder. Fingers spread outward, touching. But missing the book your reaching for— Yedam turns. Frowning. Wishes this weren't happening, because he feels like he'd feel bad if he didn't help you, you look like you desperately need it—

“Are you okay?”

You stiffen. Face burning again, “Eh? Eh? I— Yed—” and Yedam moves toward you, “Move.”

You do, slowly. And you're burning so much, he feels like he can feel the flames touching his skin, a butterfly-touch, too soft— “Which one? I'll grab it for you.”

“Th– there's no need! You can't look!” And Yedam looks up toward the shelf where you were reaching— and he immediately wishes he hadn't tried to help you—

About romance, about love, about liking, about having crushes— he turns red. And your hands cover your face. Your blush is, infectious. Is all he thinks. And he's embarassed too.

He reaches up anyways. And he spreads his fingers out. Missing the book your reaching for too. Fingers grazing against it— he can't reach either— and when he does reach it, it's crammed too tightly between the other books. He gives up.

It's embarassing for the both of you — you both leave the library, and find yourselves at the intersection outside of the look. Waiting for the light to change color.

He can feel your gaze, sometimes it burns, and other times it's too light to even feel— you look like you want to say something.

You do. “Um... — S–so... Yedam!” And he looks at you. You're set ablaze, and you're staring at him. Bright. Radiate. The universe. Silence surrounds you, and the street noise is faded. “... (name)?”

You jump. Burning even more. “Ah! I— I'm sorry!” The light changes color. And Yedam is desperate to leave, to never try be around you again— he apologizes. “... No, I'm sorry about earlier, I went a little overboard.”

Your hands clasp together, close to your chest. “That's completely!—” And Yedam is staring at the light, wishing he could leave— your eyes shut tight, and you burn bright— Yedam begins to speak again, because the light is going to change soon, and he really wants to get to the other side of the street already, he's embarassed enough— “Well, I won't tell anyone so it's fine,” His hand gestures to the other side of the street, and you're burning up even more, “I've been out for a while, so I should probably head back now. Ah, well, I'll be–” then the light switches and his insides are screaming.

You don't mind though, and he thinks, of course you wouldn't— you fumble with your words, “Um... Yedam... I...— Well, I...”

“I have something I want to talk about with you!” Your eyes are closed tight when he looks to you, you burn beneath his stare— it must hurt— you've just shouted at him, and he thinks about how infectious your blush is— “Talk about? With me?” He questions. You open your eyes, and you nod a bit— “W-what...?”

“D... Doyoung... He...” Yedam stares. Waits for you. You inhale, before exhaling, the tension in your body leaving, but not entirely. “What kind of person is he?” Your hands come to your face, touching your cheeks— The universe, radiate, bright. “Doyoung?” He echoes, wondering why him, why why why— “Y-you and Doyoung are good friends so...” You reason softly, shyly, words almost tender— Yedam scratches his head, “but that's not really the case...” Because it isn't, they aren't good friends, they aren't close— “The discussion... It's about Doyoung? What kind of person is he?” It dawns on him. Softly, brightly— the library, the books, everything else.

“(name), could it be...” it's not far-fetched, why wouldn't you? his hand drops, and the world is still, “you like Doyoung?”

“E... Eh... Eh?!” You set ablaze. “Wh-why? Why? Wh–” You're burning, and Yedam just knows. You're so easy to read. “Well... no reason?” He says, and thinks, (name) and Doyoung, they won't get on well. It doesn't look like they have anything in common... But thinks about Doyoung, and remembers how well he gets along with everyone— This is about Doyoung. About you. About romance— crushes, love. “If it's that kind of conversation then I'm useless!” The light switches again, and he's moving to the train station, “When it comes to love advice I've got nothing!” Yedam says, chest tightening. “And I'm not that good of friends with Doyoung anymore...” You follow after him. Steps slower, softer, “That's... But you guys chat so easily!” Your hands are clasped tightly in fists, and Yedam— he keeps talking anyways. “We don't chat that much!” He argues back. Thinks different classes, we're on completely different fields— “Now, We're completely... – It's just that I've known Doyoung since primary school.” Different classes, different fields, different— “Our friend groups are different. He's in the baseball club, and I'm in the ‘go home’ club,” different classes, different fields, different— “Since we entered high school, we've been in completely different classes too. So–” Different classes, different fields, completely different— “We've been with him since primary school?” You question, making him stop. “Eh. Well–” He begins, before you cut him off.

“What was he like in primary school?” your eyes brighten, the universe— it does something to him, his chest tightens, a pressure growing in in his chest— sweat forms on his skin. Doyoung? What was he like? — “Doyoung hasn't changed at all. Same as now, he was everyone's favorite.” Is? Was? He doesn't know—

He thinks, about primary school, about Doyoung— “Whenever he started something new... It would become a fad for the entire class,” Classes, fields— Doyoung is in a class, in a different field— he thinks of primary school, thinks of Doyoung, and then thinks of battle pencils. “Ah, battle pencils.”

It's nostalgic thinking about it, reminds him of being a kid. When he was free and at ease to be one— you repeat after him, eyes brightened, searching, curious— “Pencils?” It makes him smile.

“You roll the pencil then battle with the side you rolled.” Yedam gestures, mimics a pencil rolling— it's weird, seeing him do it without a pencil, but it's enough, enough for you— “Back then, they were super popular! Doyoung started that one too.”

Thinking back, it's the most friends he's had— for a moment, it makes him happy, to have had more friends, to have been enough— he turns to you, and you stare at him. Pink embedded in your cheeks, like that's where it's supposed to bloom, and he thinks, what the hell am I talking about.

He doesn't realize the train is pulling in, and he's still. Standing there, with you— Yedam panics, “The train is already here,” He turns red. Face heating up. Setting ablaze. “W-well, if that's the case,” You let out a small noise, confused, curious— “Eh?” and Yedam says, “Bye.” Before he's running off.

You watch after him, and on the inside, Yedam is feeling so, embarassed.

—

“Are these okay?” You're holding your hands together, staring down at the battle pencils you set on his desk. Yedam stares, “How did you get these?” And you mumble, stutter over your words. “T– they're my brother's, but will they be okay?” And Yedam doesn't understand why you're asking him. Doesn't know— “Why?” He asks, he knows he's mentioned it— of course he does— what will they be okay for? Why?— Why ask him?— “What's that, Yedam?”

Doyoung is there. Reaching, and touching the pencils on his desk. Holding one in between his fingers, says, these are nostalgic, and you turn. Just a bit, and stare. You set ablaze, and Yedam swears he feels your cells burning.

“Where's this from, Yedam? Is it yours?” He's staring at you— Yedam is staring at you, and you do look like a hamster— one that's in trouble, and one that's shocked, it can't move— “Nah...” Yedam tells him, and burns too when he realizes how much you like Doyoung— burning so bright, and so hot— bright, radiate, the universe— “Huh? so it's (name)'s, then?” And you burn even more when Doyoung shifts his attention to you, you shake your head, body vibrating, trembling almost. “Huh? It's not?” Doyoung questions, uneased— “Apparently, they're her brother’s,” Yedam says, his face dropping. You lied, and he's not finding it amusing, it's getting annoying— “Ah,” Doyoung replies.

Your brows furrow, and you make a face at Yedam— fists coming up, and you turn to Doyoung, your mouth opens, and Yedam is thinking, you're about to talk— “Doyoung!” You say the same time Doyoung speaks, “By the way, Yedam!” His voice louder, clearer— Yedam burns a little, “Do you still have them?” Doyoung asks, and Yedam is confused a bit— because what? “The ones you were making!”

Doyoung holds up a battle pencil. Smiles, bright— “Custom battle pencils!” He says, and his smile is so bright, Yedam's chest begins to get heavy, “I used to really love those!”

“Custom?” Quiet, softly, you echo to Doyoung— and he's quick to look at you, leaning in, “Yeah! Yedam was super good!”

Yedam begins to burn, everything— from the back of his neck to the whole of his face— “That's a nice story but! Aren't these ones better, they look hard to make.” And Doyoung is getting the chair from your desk, and saying, “Let's do it, let's do it!”

Doyoung looks to you, “come on, (name) too!”

You burn, setting every cell in your aflame. “Eh?” And your face is red, so very red, “But...” Yedam is staring, “The rules...” Doyoung is sitting, staring so brightly at you, “You don't know them? That's fine, I'll teach you!”

You stare back, burning— bright, radiate, the universe— Doyoung smiles, eyes closing, curling, “Yeah?” And Yedam is thinking, good grief...

You three okay with the battle pencils, and without even knowing, Yedam ends up helping you with Doyoung, and that's fine.

After, when class begins. When he's sitting, staring ahead, thinking— you place a folded piece of paper on his desk and he looks to you, and unfolds it. The paper scratches against his skin when he opens it, his heart beats in his chest— and he just, doesn't know. Thank you for earlier.

Yedam looks at you, and your face is burning— you're already staring at him, and the book you have in your hands move a bit, away from your mouth, uncovering it. You smile, bright, radiate, the universe— your eyes are closed, and your face is pink, blooming— he burns too.

Doyoung watches, pencil pressing against his bottom lip.

—

At lunch, a day later, Doyoung's friends, the voices call for him— and he goes. You watch after him. Holding your pencil case full of battle pencils, just watching Doyoung— Yedam watches you.

He stands, “Ah! Yedam...” You say, so softly. Burning. “Today, do you...” He knows, yet he doesn't— “Nah,” he says, you flinch, eyes widening. “With just two people, it's...” You deflate, even more when Yedam says that. “... You're right.” A moment of silence, awkward, and too long— Yedam scratches his cheek. “You want to do it with Doyoung, anyway, right?” And you flinch again, burning, setting ablaze. “Then invite him, not me.”

Yedam stares at you, thinking, it's not like you'll do it— you look up at him, determined, “Ok!” And Yedam turns white, paling— you're going? You stand, and then you sit back down. “What should I say...” You're thinking aloud. And you look to him, “If it was you, what would you say?” And Yedam— he doesn't know, why are you asking him— “Eh?! Me?” Why am I apart of this— Yedam thinks aloud, “What would I... Would... Normally, I'd say yo.” There's a cold sweat forming. And his voice gets louder, “I have absolutely no idea!” He's annoyed, with himself, with—

“O... O- of course... I'm sorry...” A breath, soft. It's timid, and enough— Yedam stills. His annoyance halting completely, “You don't need to apologize...”

He stares at you, watching, lingering— your hair is different, tied into braids— puffy, and messy, and so, you— you touch the ends, and Yedam thinks, P.E. is today?

“Do we have P.E. today?” His head is tilting, staring at you— you straighten up, “Eh? I don't... Think so.” And you wonder too. He speaks again, gesturing to his hair, “It's just, tat you've tied your hair all up, and I thought you only tie your hair up when we have P.E...” He doesn't know how he knows— maybe because he's always shared classes with you— maybe because he—

You burn. Like always. “W- well. There's no special reason for it today.” And Yedam hums. And you touch the ends again, wondering. “I wonder... What hairstyles do boys like.” You brightened, burn a bit more. “Doyoung's prefered style... And stuff.”

“I don't really know Doyoung's preferences, but I don't think preferences mean anything really.”

You make a noise, and Yedam continues. “Honestly, when it comes to hair and stuff, guys don't notice small changes.” And he thinks, and yet he doesn't— “Obviously, if you go and cut it all off. You'd make an impression.” His hand gestures again, shorter this time. And you stare. A boy comes in, “Yedam,” and he turns, “Huh, Asahi?”

Asahi asks, “Can I borrow your dictionary?” and he sees you, “Are you in the middle of something?” Not anymore— Yedam says, “Nah...” Looks to you, before stepping away, “It's fine.”

He takes a glance back. Lingering, let's himself look— he's not thinking, when is he ever though?

—

He knows it'd happen, he should have known— but when he walks into class, he's surprised— “... (name)?” It's short, really short— touching your cheeks, it— it suits you. “That...” But he isn't thinking, not at all. “...Head...” And you smile, hand coming up, touching the ends of your hair, you smile again, just like before, when you handed him that note— thank you for earlier— and you ask, “How... Is it?” And Yedam is frozen.

Until Doyoung tells him good morning, his attention shifting to you— “Woah, what happened?!” It sets you ablaze, and Doyoung's tone is, nice, nicer than Yedam's. Doyoung sounds, impressed. “Amazing! You went and cut it all in one go!” And you don't burn, but Doyoung's eyes sparkle— they brighten, like how yours do when you see him— Yedam begins, says Doyoung's name because it might hurt you— “It looks good. It suits you.”

You burn this time. There's hesitation in your voice, a shake— so soft, slow— “I... I-i, it's not weir–” Your shoulders almost touch your chin, they're so bunched up— Doyoung cuts you off, “Looks good. It's great!” And he looks at Yedam, stares right at him, “Right, Yedam?” Smiles, so bright it hurts. Makes Yedam's chest feel heavy— Yedam looks at look, you're red and burning and bright and radiate and the universe—

A voice takes Doyoung away. And It's just you and Yedam, and Yedam moves. Scratches his head, and tries to sit down— setting his schoolbag down, not turning toward you, you whisper a thank you Yedam!, and he wonders— “What for?” And you repeat after him, slower— like— like him...

“My hair. You told me, I should cut it short. Thanks to you, he complimented me!” He hates it, he hates this— there's a heaviness on his shoulders, like responsibility—yet, why would you go so far? why? why—yet... “Thanks to me...? When did I say you should cut it short?” It's terrifying— feeling this much responsibility— it's your hair— you make a noise, confused, you're still smiling, bright, radiate, the universe— “Eh...? Yesterday, you said—”

And he doesn't mean it— maybe he does, maybe in the moment he means it, he doesn't know— when does he know?— He shouts. At you, at himself at everyone— because he wasn't thinking, when does he ever think?— “I didn't say... Anything like that!”

The world stills. And Everything is quiet except for his heart racing rapidly in his chest— he wasn't thinking— and he's running, only after seeing everyone, after seeing Doyoung staring at him— you chase after him. Asking him what's wrong, that you're sorry, that you didn't mean to hurt his feelings— he turns abruptly once you're outside, near a stone wall, lower enough to sit, shouting again, because that heaviness, it won't leave— “I didn't say like “you should cut it short” did I?” He heaves, “I take no responsibility!” and you echo the last word. You panic, arms coming to your head, “It... It's really that strange? It's weird?!”

“No! That's not it at all! It suits you!” His hands come to his head, he feels— he doesn't know— he wonders why him, why you would go so far, for someone like, someone like Doyoung. And you, you're so— “So far...? He complimented me, didn't he?” You're so you, you're so slow, and always looking down, and— you ask Yedam it so easily.

“He complimented you...”" Yedam repeats, echoes it so indifferently. “He complimented you, but.” He's no longer holding his head, his hands coming together. “(name), what do you want to do with your love for Doyoung,” you make a noise, and he continues, “You want to confess? Do you want to go out?” And you're burning, making noises, “Um...” And he shouldn't mean it, but he does. “You've got no chance!” And the world is still again. He apologizes, “Sorry, I... I knew Doyoung's preference... I mean, the person Doyoung likes is... Slim, tall, and older than him. Has a mature girl vibe. She's sporty and straight to the point. As well as very colorful, and says things clearly.” A heartbeat later, “And also... Has long straight, brown hair.” His chest is tightening, you're you— bright, radiate, the universe— he continues speaking, “You're saying that his characteristics are just your type, right? He might be the perfect fit for you, but maybe you're not the perfect fit for him.” You hand touches your mouth, your heart hurts— “In Doyoung's case...” Yedam stops.

“I see... So the complete opposite of me, isn't it?” And you ask him, “Is Doyoung dating that person right now?” And Yedam looks to you, “No, It's his unrequited love.”

You smile, glancing at the ground. Yedam stares. “Well then. I really am thankful. You thought I had no chance, didn't you?” your hands move, fingers spreading. “But... You told me that straight from the beginning, so...” You smile, eyes closed. Your fists tighten, “I'll do my best!”

“Eh?!” Yedam feels, surprised, and— “If Doyoung isn't dating anyone right now, I still have a change, right? Even though you said I'm not his type, even if just a little he mag start to like me... Just a little.” And your voice is beginning to trembling, beginning to shake— “Even just a little.” Your eyes are glossy, and you're smiling— your face does something weird, and you're crying, and Yedam panics. “Are you okay?!” And your voice is trembling, “I'm fine! It's nothing! It will stop soon!” And your face is still weird, eyes wet and face squished together, red and blotchy— “But your face is...” Yedam is— he doesn't know. And a slow realization grows, he asks, “are you crying... Because of that?” Because maybe he'll like you, even just a little? Because, maybe he won't?

“I'm not crying!” You say, and your face twists, relaxes. Then you say, “Because I decided to change. I'll give up. I can't do it. I thought before doing this, I had no chance. But if I didn't do it, I would regret it... I won't like myself if I stay like this.” Yedam feels relieved, even though he had no reason to. Thinks, you won't have any regrets if you understand yourself and know your place. More than that, this— you won't have any reason to dislike yourself.

You're crying. And Yedam is awkward, heart beating heavy in his chest. “So... Are you going to stop crying?” Your hands cover your face, you burn, set ablaze— he's unaware of the cells beginning to burn in him— “don't look!” you say.

He remembers something, “You know, if you don't want to cry... Opening your mouth a little helps,” He opens his mouth a bit, staring intently at you, and your uncovering your face, “like this,” he says. His mouth open, “when you open your mouth, you can't focus on other things,” his mouth closes, and he stares, at the glossiness of your eyes, the sheen of glass, the tears threatening to fall, and the pink blooming in your cheeks— “so you won't cry.” Yedam opens his mouth, head tilting back. And you copy, slowly. Staring at one another until your tears at gone, and you both laugh— at free, and at ease.

“Yedam... I'm starting to like this hairstyle.”

—

Doyoung finds Yedam, Doyoung calls out Yedam's name, and he walks near, closer— “What was up earlier? You don't normally raise your voice like that,” Yedam stands, and so do you, “Ah.” Doyoung says. And he leans toward Yedam, quietly asking, “Did I get in the way here?” and Yedam asks, “Of what?”

“Huh? What was wrong earlier?” And Yedam stiffens, flinches, “Nothing really...” And you and Yedam both say, “It was my fault,” at the same time, it's enduring. You both argue, back and forth— “Huh? You're wrong, I said it's my fault,” Yedam begins, and you mumble, “Eh? That's not right, it's my fault!” “I told you, you're wrong, it's my fault!” “Why? I selfishly–” “Wrong.” “Why, I–” — Doyoung laughs, smiles. His hands raise, and they touch your heads, ruffling hair.

Life is a series of choices. In your first year of high school, you three, — maybe everyone, was living in ambivalence, choosing careers, taking exams, the future is spread out before you. It was going to be hectic, at this stage... The three of you landed in the same class. Best friends... Lovers... At this time, Yedam doesn't know how it ends.

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The Complete Fiction of HP Lovecraft rated by me, someone who read them all* but has a terrible memory

The Beast in The Cave: uh a guy goes on a cave tour and finds a creature that was like a human that got lost and adapted to its surroundings. 0/10 just because im pretty sure there was another one with this exact premise and neither of them were memorable at all.

The Alchemist: dude achieves immortality and lives in the narrators basement and has pledged to murder his entire lineage or something. 4/10 the alchemy stuff was actually kind of interesting

The Tomb: im pretty sure this is the one where a guy starts hanging out in a tomb and like travels back in time/becomes one of his ancestors? 5/10 if its the one im thinking of i did enjoy reading it

Dagon: guy lands on a mysterious island with signs of a long dead civilization. 1/10 i do not remember what happened in it

A Reminiscence of Dr. Samuel Johnson: 0/10 i have no memory of this

Polaris: also 0/10 i forgot all about it

Beyond the Wall of Sleep: could be any of the dream focused ones. if its the one about the dude sailing into the void or whatever than 4/10 not too bad

Memory: ironically, i dont remember it. 0/10

Old Bugs: 1/10 for the title god i wish i remembered this one

The Transition of Juan Romero: i got nothing. 0/10

The White Ship: this might also be the one about the dude sailing into the void? i liked that one he lived in a lighthouse and boarded a dream ship and just fucking left it was fun. 4/10

The Street: uh i think really steep street that didnt actually exist. 3/10

The Doom that Came to Sarnath: i wanna say another one of the dream centered ones where a town discovers some old relics and blatantly disrespects them and gets exactly whats coming to it. 5/10 they deserved what they got

The Statement of Randolph Carter: ok this dude shows up several times. i think this one is about how he returns to his childhood home then travels back in time and creates a time loop paradox thing. 1/10 meh

The Terrible Old Man: uh some thieves harrass a weird old guy and get got. 5/10

The Cats of Ulthar: someone is mean to a cat in a dream city, all of the rest of the cats get revenge and are revered for the rest of time. 2/10 (-3 because lovecraft has a specific name he gives to apparently every fictional and real cat he encounters and wow i wish he hadn't)

The Tree: i feel like this is something to do with a person becoming a tree but i cant actually remember. 0/10

Celephais: yeah no i got nothing 0/10

The Picture in the House: also nothing 0/10

The Temple: nope 0/10

Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and his Family: is this the one where the dude's great grandfather married an ape? i dont think so but im not sure. 0/10, -5/10 if it is that one cause that one was especially shitty

From Beyond: nope 0/10

Nyarlathotep: charismatic dude shows up and is like get in bitches we're going to the void. i love nyarlathotep cause hes the one who directly interacts with humanity and like wears a human suit or whatever so hes just some dude whos like hey im gonna feed you to azathoth 5/0

The Quest of Iranon: got nothing 0/10

The Music of Erich Zann: narrator makes friends with an old musician whos being hunted by supernatural forces. 2/10 because i remember it but it was just ok

Ex Oblivione: 1/10 for the title but i have no clue what it was about

Sweet Ermengarde: lovecraft's sole attempt at comedy. not to my taste like at all 0/10

The Nameless city: nope 0/10

The Outsider: also nope 0/10

The Moon-Bog: sounds cool, dont remember it. 0/10

The Other Gods: dude tries to find the gods of humanity where they live on a big mountain, actually finds them, is immediately smited by the Other Gods who protect the gods of humanity. 3/10 he deserved it

Azathoth: dont recall, 0/10

Herbert West- Reanimator: Arkham man Herbert West and his assistant ressurect the dead with little thought to the consequences, then get murdered by a band of said resurrected dead. 5/10

Hypnos: nope 0/10

What the Moon Brings: also nope 0/10

The Hound: still nope 0/10

The Lurking Fear: again, nope 0/10

The Rats in the Walls: dude returns to his ancestral home, hears rats, excavates the basement and finds out that his ancestors ate human flesh, eats his friend. 1/10 it was an interesting read but can lovecraft please stop calling cats that.

The Unnameable: no clue 0/10

The Festival: nope 0/10

*Under the Pyramids: ok im pretty sure this is the one with houdini which is the only one i could not read. i went into this mentally prepared for lovecraft's bigotry but i was not mentally prepared for him dropping harry houdini, avid skeptic who absolutely would have beat the shit out of him for this, into the middle of his super racist paranormal horror. -1000/10

The Shunned House: nope 0/10

The Horror at Red Hook: also nope 0/10

He: cool title, no memory of the story. 0/10

In the Vault: wow im bad at this. 0/10

Cool Air: still no 0/10

The Call of Cthulhu: kind of all over the place, there was a thing about artists and then a thing about a cop investigating a cult. 3/10 meh but ill give it a bonus for being a staple of horror fiction.

Pickman's Model: uh artist sees some wild shit and draws it and then it eats him. 2/10 i forget the details

The Strange High House in the Mist: if this is the one im thinking of, dude does a dangerous climb to find a mysterious house and meet the inhabitant who is kind of interdimensional and also being hunted by interdimensional things. also maybe the house eats people? 2/10

The Silver Key: another Randolph Carter one, and i think this is actually the one about him travelling back in time so idk what the other one was. 3/10

The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath: randolph carter goes on a quest in the dream world to find the gods of humanity and ask why they wont let him check out this cool city he can see from his window. lots of action and very wordy and went a lot of different places. 4/10 good read but extremely xenophobic

The Case of Charles Dexter Ward: guy investigates his ancestor who looks disturbingly like him, ancestor comes back to life and kills him and takes his place and a bunch of other stuff happens. mostly a dramatized genealogical study. 3/10 not bad, very suspenseful

The Colour Out Of Space: meteor lands on a farm, scientists get weirded out by it, everything in the area gets weird then dead, alien thing gets enough power from draining nearby life-forms to escape earth. fun twist ending. 4/10 bonus for being one of the better ones, detraction for writing out a 'rural accent'

The Descendant: nope, 0/10

The Very Old Folk: nope again, 0/10

History of the Necronomicon: very dry. fake history of lovecraft's fake book thats super important to a lot of the stories. 0/10

The Dunwich Horror: isolated witchy family has a kid who no one likes that grows up real fast. graphic descriptions of renovation. a horror gets unleashed on the area and the local folklore scholars have to deal with it. 1/10 nothing good enough to counter the xenophobia

Ibid: i remember this one. no idea what it's deal was. pseudo-bibliography? it was weird. 0/10

The Whisperer in Darkness: guy has a correspondance with another guy about local folk legends based on evil crab things. other guy gets straight up replaced by an evil crab thing and first guy doesnt even notice. imagine if you followed up on a scam email and didnt realize anything was up until you saw that the face of the dude you were talking to in person was a mask. 4/10 for the comedy this guy would not last in the internet age at all

At The Mountains of Madness: guy whines about penguins and how awful it would be if there were civilizations that predated humanity. also commits grave desecration. i get hit by the realization that if lovecraft was less of a racist coward he wouldve made a great speculative sci fi author. 3/10 i would love to watch that old asshole get absolutely torn to shreds by the monster fucker community

The Shadow over Innsmouth: Fish People! Leave Them Alone! Or Else! 5/10 the protagonist gets to live the dream by escaping human society and becoming an immortal fish person

The Dreams in the Witch House: dude rents an objectively haunted room, doesnt listen to people trying to help him, gets murdered by a weird rat. later they find a shit ton of bones in the attic. 2/10 meh

Through The Gates of the Silver Key: Randolph Carter transcends time and space, then de-transcends time and space and immediately gets stuck on another planet in the distant past, makes a long and difficult journey back to earth to find that his estate is being divided amongst his heirs. the comedy potential of a man stuck in an alien body dealing with a legal system that has declared him dead is not examined. 2/10

The Thing on the Doorstep: narrator's good friend marries a fish person witch who steals his body. thats basically it. 3/10. at this point im like wow these narrators really refuse to believe the heavily foreshadowed supernatural explanations that turn out to be correct huh.

The Evil Clergyman: dude is in a room. some ghosts (?) show up. dude has a UV light for some reason. Gets his face stolen i guess and just has to live with it. 5/10 for being absolutely buck wild and refusing to explain anything

The Book: nope 0/10

The Shadow Out Of Time: dude gets his body stolen by ancient scholar species. agonizes about it for a while. finds archaeological evidence of said species. finds a book he wrote while living with said species. almost gets eaten by something. 3/10 more cool speculative sci fi but lame protagonist

The Haunter of the Dark: you'd think id remember it bc this was the last one and i read it last night. oh wait, nvm i do remember it. dude finds an old box in a run down culty church and unleashes a horror that then comes and fucks him up. 1/10 meh.

#tw lovecraft #i have forgotten more than i can remember #which is on par for me

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abduct-me-helen · 4 years

Text

Class 108's Apocalypse Field Trip | Chapter 1.

The world ended on a Tuesday. Quite suddenly, halfway through class. After the sky split open and green light bathed the earth, things changed. Some lived.

Some didn’t.

Class 108 stayed together, for the most part. They took up a base in the school, and boarded up the windows and doors.

Sydney was the one who first learned they didn’t need to eat. Other revelations of that sort followed. Sleep was not needed, nor was water. Air seemed to be, though, as they learned after Cal passed out from holding their breath.

The first one to die was Cú.

They don’t talk about Cú.

Of course, some things are unavoidable in the end. Logically, Sydney knew it was only a matter of time before something managed to slip under the cracks and they’d all get killed; god knows they’d narrowly scraped by enough times to be considered cosmically lucky. Tabitha had been spreading rumors, as was her nature, about the school itself being sentient, trapping them inside with false promises of safety.

On the worse days, Sydney believed it.

Sydney stepped into the classroom slowly, craning her head to where Tabitha and Rosie were explaining their theories. She didn’t know which theories, but she’d heard most of them by now.

“G’morning.” She said.

It was night.

No, she thought, the sky is dark, but that doesn’t mean it’s night.

Rosie gestures towards a desk, and she avoids the chair toppled over at her feet as she sits down on top of it. She takes not of who else had decided to attend this “session” of theirs today. There are 12 students left out of the thirty who had originally made up the class. Ten of them had disappeared after running away from the school in shock after the eye in the sky had first opened. They hadn’t been in homeroom during the “blink,” which is what they’d taken to call the eye opening, and hadn’t seen any teachers since that day.

She remembered it vividly.

Ms. Bruis had tensed, eyes wide in shock, before telling them to calm down and stay indoors. She immediately went outside the room to check on everyone else.

That was the last time they’d seen Ms. Bruis, but not the last time they’d seen her face.

Besides the initial chaos, there wasn’t anything attacking the school. It was just shouting and screaming and running. Sydney had stayed in the classroom, clumsily trying to close the blinds on the window.

People just, left. And they didn’t come back.

The first venture was when they lost Cú. She doesn’t like to talk about him, never mind think about him. Nonetheless, her mind often drifts towards his death.

It was about four hours after the chaos. People had been nearly sucked out of the building, teachers included. The only ones that remained were the thirty students of 108.

Sydney didn’t know why they were the only ones to remain. She still doesn’t now.

The students decided to have a short party go out and scout. Sydney, Katie, Cú, Tabitha and Rosie. Four survived, one did not.

Rosie was always the thinker of the group, and as such she took the front. Katie was chosen for her seemingly nonchalant disposition to going, and Tabitha for her mind, which was always going too fast and often arriving at far-out conclusions. Despite this, she was a quick-witted person and had been selected for her dexterity and speed. Cú was selected for his physicality. He was a teddy bear, but a strong teddy bear.

It didn’t save him in the end.

And Sydney, well, she was cautious. She wonders if she could’ve saved Cú if she’d been just a little bit wearier.

They wandered a few blocks before hearing the sound of skin and bone splitting. Tabitha immediately ran toward the sound, as was her nature. The rest, Rosie at the lead, followed, hiding behind a corner.

Katie didn’t make a face, but even she was visibly pale.

When the sound came again, louder, and a creature made of wet flesh and twisted muscle stepped out of the alleyway, she became practically white.

Sydney retched. She’s not ashamed to admit it, you would’ve too. Anyone would’ve retched if they saw that sight.

It got worse.

“Hello?! Someone! Help me, please!”

It was Ms. Bruis-no, it looked like Ms. Bruis.

Cú ran. He dodged the creature, running to Ms. Bruis and starting to try to pick her up off the ground, before he noticed she was rooted to the cement. His eyes widened as blood ran down her face

She smirked.

Sydney will always remember the flash of teeth before she plunged her hand-no, her claw-into his stomach. He made a choked sound before the creature bounded back over and ripped his jaw clean off.

They ran. They ran. They ran.

And then they came back to the classroom, and they wept.

There were more expeditions after that. They lost seven more after that, but in those ventures, they collected knowledge. This knowledge went on Rosie’s list, though it also doubled as a rulebook.

THE LIST

1. Some creatures can make copies of people you know in order to trick you. They don’t bleed, so your best shot at not meeting eyeball daddy up close is to yeet the fuck outta there//bold of you to assume I don’t want to meet eyeball daddy uwu//

2. Don’t trust meat. Ever. Meat comes alive. WE ARE VEGANS IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2018(?)

3. Don’t answer the door, even if you’re armed. No, Eric, we do not count your big muscles™ as a weapon.

4. If you MUST answer the door, don’t. You have been stopped.

5. A short section on the happenings of the places(?) known to us as “nightmares.”

Nightmares trap humans in these crazy places. We’ve only seen two, but they are extremely dangerous, and both encounters ended in casualties. They trap your mind and make you experience terrible things, and like the rest of the world (to our knowledge at least) don’t follow normal time or space rules. Basically, if you want to avoid a ,’ , |,’_’, you should not screw with that shit.

6. Always check with someone else before eating or drinking. Sometimes, your mind will play tricks on you and you won’t notice that you’re eating something…not good. Honor cal for their sacrifice regarding this matter (sorry cal)

7. Always shut the blinds. Eyeball daddy is watching you//YOU DID NOT NEED TO SAY THAT TABITHA

8. Don’t leave the building without consulting all of class 108.

9. Don’t read books that others haven’t read first, especially if it says it’s from the library of Jurgen LeitnerSTUPID IDIOT MOTHERFUCKING JURGEN LEITENER GOD DAMN FOOL BOOK COLLECTING DUST EATING RAT OLD BASTARD SHITHEAD IDIO//yes, Riko, we get it, but good point. Be Jared, 19.

10. Don’t invite anyone in.

“What are we on today?” Sydney asked.

“Tabitha’s on about the categories again.” Cal said.

“I really think it could work!” she said loudly. “Look, there’s consistencies in every single encounter we’ve had. Think about it. Remember what happened at the theater?”

Katie grimaced silently. “How could we forget?”

Tabitha ignored her. “The webs. Spiders and the rest of those insects are different categories. The wriggly silver worms are more like, bugs and wriggly things and judging from the infestation we had they all work together.”

“Like a hive?” Cal asked.

Tabitha nodded. “Exactly like that. Spiders are different though; you saw how many were crawling about during the amphitheater incident. And that whole thing was about control. All those people who were laughing…they, they were there. They didn’t want to do it! They didn’t want to laugh, you saw their eyes. They were being controlled. And when,” she paused, gritting her teeth, “and when Marcy died she was being controlled too. Puppeted.”

That’s two. Then we come to the next one, guns and murder and war and shit like that. Simple enough. But I think it has to be humans killing humans, because the thing that killed, killed Cú wasn’t like that. It was, it was different. I don’t know. I’ll get back to that.

“Then we have the cover up, or the anonymous things. Things like those little creatures that hide in your plates that you can’t notice are there until someone tells you. That’s why I’m confused, because I think the weird fleshy creature we faced was aligned with that but also with those meat things that broke Rosie’s leg. I don’t know how to explain it, but, ah. Sorry. I think they’re the same category.”

“I’ll humor you; can a thing be two categories?” Katie questioned her dully.

“I think so. Maybe it’s like colors? Really angry colors. They’re all separate, but the same because they’re all made of the same stuff. And they all blur together sometimes?”

“Yeah,” Katie snorted, “we’re being killed by really angry colors.”

Tabitha flushed. “Hey! It was just an analogy.”

Rosie seemed to be considering what Tabitha had said, before she looked up. “I believe you.”

“Y-you do?” Tabitha blinked, taken back.

Rosie nodded. “It makes sense. Really angry colors.”

“Really angry colors.”

A few hours-well, time was weird, but Sydney supposed it was hours-later, the class was doing yoga. Well, not “yoga” per se. They were beating each other on the head with torn up yoga mats.

“Hey!” Riko shouted as Tabitha tripped over her mat while chasing Cal. “Watch it! This is where I sleep!”

Tabitha stuck her tongue out and Katie snorted, not looking up from her book. Sydney wondered how she did that; Katie always seemed to have an astounding amount of situational awareness at all times.

“Real mature.” Katie groused.

Tabitha grinned, and Rosie smiled softly.

“I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU MEET EYEBALL DADDY!” she shouted to Cal, who’s eyes widened in mock fear.

“Oh no! The horror! OwO!” They said dramatically.

“Did they just say “OwO”?” Sydney asked in a deadpan. Rosie nodded solemnly.

“You ever wonder…” Sydney trailed off, the muffled shouting of their peers drowned out into the background.

“Wonder what?” Rosie tilted her head in question.

“What happened to Mr. Sims.”

“He’s probably…not with us anymore.”

“Yeah. Still, could you imagine? He was a bloody cryptid. He’d probably take all this with no sweat.”

“Maybe he’d give us concerts too.”

“Good ole Jonny D’Ville.”

Rosie snickered.

“You know how he always drew eyes everywhere? During tests?”

“Oh god, don’t mention that to Tabitha, I don’t need her going on about another conspiracy.”

Sydney grinned to herself and Rosie groaned.

“Well, I was thinking, maybe it was an omen.”

“An omen?”

“Yeah. I’ve never been spiritual really, but the worlds gone to shit so who knows what’s real. Maybe the Mayans were just a few days off.”

“Ah, the apocalypse calendar.”

“Indeed.”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

A noise rang out from the entrance to the school, loud and imposing. Sydney’s heart started to thump wildly in terror.

They all shot up, and Katie got her switchblade out from her pocket. She was lucky enough to have it on her at the blink, and it was their best weapon.

Cypress shot inside the classroom silently, eyes wide, red curls bouncing. He clicked the door shut quietly, pale. “The others sent me. They’re hiding in place. I think we should just stay put.”

Rosie nodded, gesturing him to come over. She placed a finger over her lips in order to get them to stay silent, then nodded to Katie. Katie had always been gifted with really good hearing, and it had saved their assess more than enough times for Rosie to know that letting her try to hear who was at the door was the best safe bet for situation and the time being.

Katie closed her eyes, but after a quarter of a minute shook her head.

That’s when they heard it.

“Hello!”

Sydney brought a hand to her mouth to clamp down a scream.

It was Cypress.

Eyes wide, she glanced over to Cypress, her Cypress, who’s expression was now glazed over. Was his skin always that waxy? Why was his hair so smooth? It looked like that of a dolls, curls made of softly bent plastic.

Katie saw the flicker of light before she saw the blade, and she lunged.

Her switchblade pierced his skin-no, his stuffing, with a sound akin to ripping a toy. It didn’t seem to stop this not-Cypress.

Oh god, Sydney thought, today is the day I die.

There was a sound like static now in the air, and the faint smell of burning. Sydney began to feel sick, almost lightheaded.

The door swung open, and Sydney whipped her head around to see Cypress, who was trailed by…Mr. Sims?

#tma #the magnus archives #teacher!jon #teacher jonathan sims #tma fanfic #eyepocolypse #tma spoilers #tma au #season 5 #tma season 5 #gen z vs the apocolypse

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loveafterthefact · 4 years

Text

Love After the Fact Chapter 41: Orphaned

So... I'm sorry.

Trigger Warnings: -Death -Keith, SufferingTM

First Previous Next

While Coran inspects everyone for injuries, including Alfor, Lance keeps an eye on Keith. Long, thick, black lashes flutter against sharp cheekbones. He’s dreaming.

Lance hopes he’s somewhere safe and warm.

…

It's a warm day. The bottle-green primate on Keith’s shoulder chitters appreciatively as he hands it half of a large tree-hopper. Settling onto the leaf-strewn sand, he pats his primate with his little hands. The primate pats him back, chittering. Her little baby peeks out of his pouch, wraps his long hands around Keith’s finger. The small kit smiles. He loves his pets.

“Hey, kitten.” Akira returns from the hunt, a vakalt slung over his back. “How’s your hunt going?”

“Dad!” Keith jumps up, puts his pets on his back. TreeTrunks works her fingers into his hair, her toes into his tunic. “Good! Caught bugs!”

“I bet you did.” Akira leans down, scoops up his young, his only kit. “Did you share with TreeTrunks and BleepBloop?”

“Mhm. TreeTrunks does pats now, but BleepBloop doesn’t. He gives squeezes, though.”

“So… If you ate lots of bugs, does that mean you don’t want any vakalt?” The pout on his little son's face has Akira biting back a laugh. He has his mother's sass.

Keith peers over his sire’s shoulder at the fanged, double-jointed tree dweller. Its coat is marbled greens and browns, reds and purples, blending in perfectly with the forest. Eyes wide with awe, Keith reaches out to pet the fur. “Pretty. It’s so soft!”

“Yeah? You can have the fur, if you want.”

“Really?” Keith gasps. “I can have it?”

“Sure.” Akira rubs their cheeks together. “It’ll be nice and warm for you, huh?”

“Mhm.” Keith rests his head on his father’s shoulder, wraps his tail around his arm. He starts playing with Akira's long braid. “We had fun today.”

“Yeah?” Relief washes through Akira. It's the first time he left his kit alone to hunt. It's time, but Keith is so small, causing his father extra worry.

“Mhm. BleepBloop almost caught a bug, but he missed.”

“Aw, well I bet he’ll get it next time. He’s still little. In a little bit, he’ll be as good of a bug hunter as you are!”

“Yes! Me and TreeTrunks are gonna teach him all our moves!”

"I know you will, kitten." Akira sets his boy and the primates down in front of their den, ruffles his mop of inky hair. As much as he misses and worries about his mate, he adores his young son. He’d do anything for this little guy.

The little guy in question plays in the windchimes, young enough to be content with simple amusements. Akira worries how he’ll stimulate the boy as he gets older. Krolia was always the smart one, and Keith takes after his mother in myriad ways.

Krolia. The last time she saw their kit, they’d still referred to him in neutral terms. She doesn’t know their child is a boy. She doesn’t know that he’s struggling to grow, way behind despite Akira’s every effort. She doesn’t know that he cries during his growth spurts, that he sobs that his bones hurt, that Akira never feels so helpless as he does then. She doesn’t know how wonderful their kit is, either. Curious. Clever. Talented. More than a little sassy when he’s in the mood to be. But more than anything, he’s just sweet. And he looks almost exactly like her.

It makes Akira miss her a little more and a little less.

Akira cleans and skins the vakalt, saving the organs to use for fertilizer, the intestines for thread, the fat for greasing, waterproofing, burning for light. He’ll dry out the stomach and bladder to use for carrying herbs and other gathered items. He’ll clear out the horns for water, or to fill with burning oil from the village a few varga’s ride from here. The bones will be for soup, maybe an awl, something for his kit to teethe on, tie together, play with.

Keith hums, draws his pictures, tries to teach BleepBloop how to draw. The baby primate lacks his dexterity, but tries for the kit with the help of his mother. He can hear his father cutting the vakalt into pieces.

A rustling sound has Keith pausing in his scribbling, last wobbly glyph of BleepBloop’s name unfinished in the sand. He peers into the trees, fluffy, little ears twisting this way and that, trying to catch another sound. He creeps over on his hands and toes, sniffs the foliage at the edge of their clearing.

“What are you doing, kitten?”

“Heard something.”

“Come over here." When the kit continues his inspection, Akira tacks on, "Now.”

The forest is not a safe place.

Keith does so, albeit with a huff, standing behind his tall father’s legs, fingers curled into Akira’s pants, tail around his ankles. Sniffing the air for himself, Akira nudges his son with his own tail. “Get inside.”

“Daddy?” Having to go inside is Keith's cue to be scared.

“Go on, kitten.”

Keith creeps hesitantly toward the den, slips behind the curtain. A few doboshes later, a group of small, hairless people step out of the brush. As Keith watches, their skin turns from mottled greens and reds to anything from pale white to near black. They have patches of color on their cheeks. He knows what they are, though he’s never seen one before.

Alteans.

Keith slips into the pile of furs even though it’s stuffy and warm. With his sire present, his instinct is to remain silent, to hide himself as best he can. He hunkers down into the furs to wait for his father to come get him.

Instead, he hears a shout, metal on metal like when Akira fixes tools, only different. He curls up tight in a ball, tail clasped in his hands. The ruckus only lasts a few minutes, followed by shouts, shots fired. The noise fades into the distance.

He waits.

And waits.

The air grows cool before he hears anything more. Then, footsteps. A voice.

“What about the kit? I saw it. Scrawny, tiny little thing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” another voice says. “It’ll starve on its own. Too young to hunt. Only two or three.”

Keith scowls. He’s not that small! And he's six, morons!

“Come on.” Yet another voice. “Let’s go before the little thing comes back asking where it’s dad is.”

Keith spends the night curled up in the furs, warm despite the cold. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t. His sire is missing, and he has no littermates to keep him safe. When morning comes again, and there’s no sign of danger, he chooses to go find his father.

The earth is all churned up. Their oven has been toppled. Against one tree, he spots TreeTrunks, fur all bloodied.

“TreeTrunks?” Keith nudges his pet. She’s cold to the touch. The little kit starts to sniffle. Primarily carnivorous, he’s familiar with death, but not familiar with loss. “TreeTrunks!”

She is very dead. But at his insistent nudging, Keith finds movement. BleepBloop crawls out of his deceased mother’s pouch, chittering. Sniffling, ears drooped, Keith rubs at his eyes. He lifts the barely weaned baby into his arms, cradles him close.

“BleepBloop,” he sniffles. “C- Come on, BleepBloop. We gotta- We gotta find Dad.”

The small kit cradles BleepBloop to his chest, the baby primate’s little fingers not quite strong enough to hold himself there on his own for long.

Sniffling, Keith creeps along the edge of the torn up earth, finds his father’s scent intermingled with the strange Altean ones trailing off into the thick of the forest. Keith follows the scent, stopping to catch an insect for BleepBloop. The primate doesn’t eat, but the kit doesn’t blame him. He doesn’t feel like eating either. He lets the insect fly away.

Akira’s scent draws him deeper and deeper into the woods, and Keith is scared. He’s never been on his own for this long, or this far away from the den where he was born. What if he gets lost?

BleepBloop’s screech alerts Keith right before he stumbles over the edge of a ravine. At the bottom, half-submerged in a creek, is a dark form amidst a few other forms.

“Dad!” Keith crouches at the edge of the ravine, tiny fingers curling into the ledge. “Daddy!”

Not a move. Not a peep. Keith cradles BleepBloop close, takes a deep breath.

On his short, little legs, Keith starts working his way down the ravine, keeping one hand on BleepBloop, another on the stony wall. His little chest heaves, breath coming in pants as he makes his way down the narrow path.

His footing slips, and he falls with a shriek. BleepBloop falls, earning a sob from Keith. He reaches out, catches the baby primate in his hands. Shaking, the little kit holds his pet close, sniffles. He just wants his father.

“It's okay, BleepBloop. I'm sorry. We'll be okay. We’re almost there.”

BleepBloop clings to his tiny fingers as Keith stumbles the rest of the way down the rock face. When he finally reaches the bottom, he runs for his sire, tripping over the body of an Altean. He stares into the face of his enemy, the one he inherited from his ancestor.

He wants his father.

“Daddy!” Keith shakes the supine form of his father. He already knows it’s useless. “Please?” he whimpers. Akira, of course, does not move, braid trailing in the water. The little kit tucks his knees to his chest, tail wrapped around his legs, ears drooped.

Keith chirps, once, twice, thrice, on and on until the sun goes down. BleepBloop is still in his hands and it’s getting cold. Instincts kicking in, Keith scurries to the rock face, pulls some of the edging greenery into a small nest, drags more on top of himself. His primate companion curls up in his hands.

He waits for quintants, chirping, but no one comes for him. Eventually, he and BleepBloop make their way back up the ravine wall and back to the den. They leave the corpses of the Alteans to rot in the sun.

Akira is covered in a layer of stones, something to be preserved. Something to come back to when the world gets scary and lonely.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

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