#what you don’t know is that his real name is strange aeons | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mushroom-cartel--writing · 3 years

Text

to be [a]sundered

Summary: Kugisaki Nobara is blessed. She will never know.

Relationship(s): Kugisaki Nobara & Reader, Kugisaki Nobara/Reader

Note(s):

Here’s the link to read this on AO3! (You know the drill, extra tags, different notes, the format I intended, etc. Oh. And the comment section.)

There’s manga spoilers in this fic alongside headcanon.

So far, out of my menial amount of JJK fics, this one has probably been the most enjoyable to write. With Nobara’s background I can play around because it’s just there.

|||

“I’m going to Tokyo,” she says. Come with me.

“No.” Can’t, sorry.

Mahito touches her soul.

Kugisaki Nobara is blessed.

She will never know.

The first time she introduces you to her friends, Saori nearly gouges your eye out with a sugar spoon and Fumi spills the contents of her cup across the table.

“I have cake,” you say, offering a cutesy box to Saori who’s still got the sugar spoon trained on you. “It’s baumkuchen. An old acquaintance gave it to me for free but I figured it’d be too much for just one person.”

Nobara, giggling, just offers you a seat and asks for more tea.

On the outskirts of the village there is a shrine.

They say it houses a god that blessed their lands long ago and watches over them to this very day; they hold a celebration in its honour every year, a small share of the harvest season’s best crop is offered up to appease the god.

Her grandparents say it houses a malevolent wonder-terror who feasts on the soul of its worshippers once the sun goes down; her grandparents say the aforementioned god and malevolent wonder-terror are one and the same, born from a wish made by humans.

You laugh when she tells you the crap people have come up about your home. (You appreciate the free food, though.)

You are not a god or something malevolent. You’re you.

Not quite divine but too powerful to sniff at.

Humans cannot see or sense you. Not even those who can bottle their negative energy, the ones you occasionally see passing through the village. Usually, you have to will yourself into existence. But she can regardless.

Spirits, the weak and strong, good nor bad, fear you. Your presence sets their survival instincts off, running immediately when you try to approach them. She has to give chase and incapacitate them for you when the hunger becomes agony.

You taught her well, it seems.

Too well.

Mahito touches her soul and it burns, burns, burns.

Kugisaki Nobara was barely old enough to be out on her own, but her grandparents trusted her to stay safe. The village was small, everyone knew each other, word spread fast, so if something happened to her on her small excursion… Well, no one would come looking for her, would they?

It was a lie when she said she was just going out to play with friends at the park.

Nobara didn’t have friends.

All the other kids were boring. She didn’t like their company. Whenever there was a big gathering, she’d try her best to avoid them and hide from the adults in bushes.

Despite knowing this, her grandmother let her go.

She hated being cooped inside with nothing to do and today was perfect! The humid air made her clothes stick to her skin but at least the wide-brimmed straw sunhat she snatched from her grandfather’s shed protected her from the sun’s wrath. It meant her peers would be over at the river halfway across the village; people wouldn’t go back to working on their fields until it cooled down a bit later in the day; they wouldn’t see her; and she’d be on her lonesome.

She wanted to laugh to herself. Everything was coming together.

Finally, she could check out that place she’s been meaning to visit ever since she first heard of it: the derelict shrine.

Her grandmother warned her to stay away from it, lest she give her name away by accident to the being living there and have her life stolen, but Nobara, inwardly, thought it was a load of cow dung. She’d die? Hah?! It was all superstition! (She would never admit it did spook her a bit.) Besides, things like vampires and witches and ghosts didn't exist in the first place. She’d be fine.

Humming with a skip in her step, Nobara made it to the shrine in due time.

“Hello?”

“Why hello there!”

She took everything back.

You had to be a ghost with the way you snuck up on her soundlessly. You kept insisting you weren’t. You glided along the floor.

You had to be a ghost. And now you were serving her snacks and tea. Inside the shrine. Inside what was, supposedly, your home.

“Why don’t I believe you?” she voiced aloud.

You stared at her, face deadpan, and poured hot water over your hand. She watched your skin scald. “Does this answer your question?”

Kugisaki Nobara at five years old was a bit of a skeptic, contrary to her personal beliefs.

“No. Not really.”

11:25 PM →

You emerge from the gaping hole where her left eye was blown out alongside a good chunk of her head, something writhing and fierce and oh-so familiar.

Ah. Right. This feeling; this foreign dread dawning upon him, piercing Mahito innermost; your dull but irritated eyes trained on the cursed spirit akin to a lizard eyeing up a cockroach. You’re like him, possessing a soul that absolutely cannot and should not be touched.

Shit—that means she too—

Hahahahaha.

You don’t even need to spare him another glance. You know what he’s thinking. You know what he’s done.

You won’t be as lenient with him as Sukuna was.

But here’s the thing. Although a student may surpass their teacher one day, the teacher might not relay all that they know to the next generation to ensure the safety of their student and those around them. However, Mahito is nothing to you. Itadori Yuuji, on the other hand, is important, so you grab him and throw the boy behind you.

“Reverberate,” you intone, bearing the exact same wounds as her.

His senses are heightened a thousandfold, but not nearly are they even close to yours.

You shove a nail of hers into yourself, saying, “Plunge.”

It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, ithurtsithurtsithurts, hurtshurtshurtshurtshurTshURtsHURTS.

“Quietus.”

“We’re soulmates, you and me.”

She bursts out laughing. “Like from those cheesy dramas?” Nobara asks. Because. She needs to know. Whenever she’s around you, everything feels… right. It’s hard to articulate. Her heart doesn’t rush when you graze her skin but the particular spot where contact was made always tingles with a reassuring warmth; you’re real, not a fabrication of her imagination. She doesn’t fantasise about you like the way her peers do with the object of their affections. Your very presence makes her comfortable. “Are you having second thoughts?” she jeers, poking you hard in the ribs. (She’s still bitter about your decision.)

The intended jab has no effect.

“No,” is your reply. “What I mean is that your soul and mine are the same. If something happens to you, I’ll know.”

“What? You think I’m gonna be some part of a demonic summoning ritual where I’ll be a human sacrifice?”

“Time and distance makes no difference.”

“So if I just say the word…?”

“That… that’s not what I…” You sigh and scrub the gunk from your eyes.

How are you supposed to explain the whole situation to her?

Oh, yeah, about a couple aeons ago there was a being who tore themself in two—one part immortal, the other mortal—in order to understand their reason for existing. Their immortal self would be stagnant and observe their mortal self who would continuously live, die and reincarnate, until the latter, under their own volition, sought the former out and then a conclusion would be made between the two on whether or not they would remain as separate entities or rejoin together as one again.

Your original self (you and her; her and you) wasn’t great at planning ahead, that is plain to see. They didn’t think about the consequences, they just wanted an out. And fast.

Well look at you now. Distorted beyond reason. You’re an exercise in self-destruction. You stopped considering it being a miracle that you could wake up every morning by yourself and do what you wanted: the novelty was short-lived. You want to die but you’re at the point where it’s easier to convince yourself you do not than to focus on how you will off yourself somewhere that no one (and nothing) can find your undecayed corpse because the company you keep will become worried if you let the happy facade slip.

“Never mind,” you mutter.

She was ten when she first saw the skull.

It tumbled from your billowing sleeve as you rummaged around your pockets, rolling to a stop at her feet.

She lifted it up. “Whose is this?”

It was a weird skull, not like those she’d seen in her textbooks. She thought of asking Fumi about the skull later, when school started back up, but the idea was literally snatched from her mind when you saw exactly what she was holding.

In your hands, the skull seemed smaller. Inconsequential. Another another weird quirk of yours: carrying around random things. Maybe it was a model? You told her to forget about it and stowed the skull away—back into your sleeve—and dragged her along the beaten path you insisted on walking.

The next time, she was thirteen and helping you clear up your home. Fumi was there too.

They’d been going through a closet stuffed full of old junk and out the skull tumbled, right into Fumi’s lap. Rightfully so, her friend screamed. It took you several minutes to calm the poor girl down, her view of you now askew. Nobara was on your side when Fumi tried convincing you whomever the skull belonged to deserved a proper burial out in the forest and you refused.

No matter how hard she tried, you would not budge.

And that was that.

(From then on, whenever you made yourself visible to Fumi, she regarded you warily before seeing the way you looked at Nobara like she hung the stars and the moon.)

The last time the skull made an appearance in her life, Nobara had just turned fifteen.

A strange pair of men were at her door at the crack of dawn, rousing her grandparents, which prompted them to drag Nobara out of bed at such a god-awful time of the day. They all sat at a table soberly, discussing her future while Nobara found her attention gravitating to you.

You were playing with a stray cat in the garden, its stomach presented to you eagerly so soon after it deemed you safe, and making the most disgusting cooing noises she had ever heard to it with a dopey grin.

It was only at the call of her name that her head snapped back forward.

Yaga Masamichi was a strange one, tinkering so openly with a corpse in front of her deeply superstitious grandparents, but, strangely enough, it was his companion, a shock of white hair and bandage, that caught her eye. The young man was looking your way.

Not at the cat pawing up at thin air. Oh no. The blindfolded stranger’s gaze was dead set on you; she saw his brow raise minutely as Yaga and her grandparents continued talking, her tools of trade that was cobbled together from old sheds and the local hardware store bared flat on the table; she watched him watch you rub the cat’s belly before you lifted it high into the air like a parent would to their child. It was obvious what the situation playing out was: you had caught on to the stranger’s sighting of you long before she did. To emphasise the fact, you even babbled to the cat, “Higher, higher! Oopsie-daisy!!” before letting it back down and nuzzling it against your face, affectionate and close.

Yaga only noticed the change in atmosphere when the cat’s meows suddenly went quiet. But the other one (white hair, bandages, feels wrong, rotting flesh and fresh) grinned, slapping an enrollment form on the table.

“You. Leave that thing behind when you come to our school,” said Gojou Satoru, his introduction earlier all pomp and a wellspring of positive energy memes a stark comparison to now as he continued watching you, all but ignoring her grandmother shouting up at him to stop spouting nonsense.

(“What drivel! My granddaughter surely won’t—”)

She went back to spacing out in your direction.

Without hesitation, you dropped the cat into your gaping maw and swallowed it whole in one gulp. The first cursed spirit you managed to catch by yourself. Your ability at masking your aura was improving. That was good.

The skull peeked out of your hoodie’s pocket, the many orbits winking at her.

Screw the rules, you were coming with her whether the bureaucracy liked it or not.

At this rate, she’s going to die for sure.

You know what to do.

You’re one and the same. If Mahito touched one half of your original self and corrupted it, reason dictates that giving her body (the container) yours will fix her. But there’s a problem.

The implosion practically ruined her chances of survival, reducing it to null.

Not even a high grade sorcerer could hope to reverse the damage. Bone is a special material. Bone takes time to be cultivated or to grow. For a jujutsu user, especially, a substitute of different material won’t cut it. Bone, like the soul, contains an essence of sorts, it’s one of the few natural conductors of negative energy humans can have.

Your point: bone is not easily replaced.

Kneeling over Nobara, you grab from the air the object you were entrusted with over a millennium ago for safekeeping.

“Oi, oi, oi, you. You. Freak-god-thing.” You regard Itadori Yuuji with disdain. Or rather, the lone eye and accompanying mouth that’s on his cheek. “Is that what I think it is.”

“What? Are you objecting? Or worse—obstructing?”

“I don’t know about you or the brat, but you’re gonna fuck up the girl if you do that.”

“And since when did the King of Curses grow a heart?”

“I fucking didn’t, you prick.” The eye manages to scowl without a brow. “I’m just saying… You are sending her to condemnation.”

“Says the finger shagger,” you retort. The mouth disappears; Itadori Yuuji has an indescribable expression on his face but you know he won’t try and stop your hare-brained idea, he wants what you want.

You know what you’re doing.

You’ve had to do this a few times before.

It will work.

“Hello?”

A child? Who in their right mind would—

You freeze in your tracks. It’s them, your mind exclaims. It’s them. Them. Them. Them.

… Her.

You walk up behind her, beaming.

“Why hello there!” you chime, so, so happy.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #kugisaki nobara x reader #nobara x reader #gn!reader #gender-neutral reader #reader insert #one-shot #originally posted on ao3 #jujutsu kaisen

27 notes · View notes

hystericalcherries · 3 years

Text

aeon (6/6)

Pairing: Keith/Lance Words: 10.5k Rating: M Warnings: mild violence Tags: Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough... the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn't put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

READ IT ON AO3

The day of the Alliance Feast comes and Keith finds himself sulking in a corner as he watches an alien chat Lance up.

Allura had stuffed them all in Altean formal wear, color-coded and high-collared, capes draped tastefully across their shoulders. The material of the suits are surprisingly breathable despite all its excess, stretching and bunching up in just the right places to cut them all into impressive figures. The princess had been very particular in how she wanted them all to look and had forced herself into more than one fitting room back at the Garrison; Shiro’s hair is slicked back, Hunk’s headband folded into the pocket of his jacket, Keith’s loose ponytail tied with a red ribbon, Lance’s waist adorned by a silver chain and Pidge’s glasses exchanged for a sleeker pair. If the star-eyed looks they’ve been receiving ever since they landed on New Altea is anything to go by then she must have succeeded.

Lance, Keith must admit, looks particularly dashing. His suit makes his shoulders look broader and it’s a problem. More so because it’s obvious that the red paladin isn’t the only one to take notice, more than one individual coming forward to introduce themselves to the friendliest member of Voltron.

Keith glares.

The alien doesn't take the hint and keeps talking, going so far as to place one of their four hands on the blue paladin’s upper arm when they laugh. Lance looks pleased.

“You should go talk to him.”

A crick forms in his neck when he jerks to attention at Allura’s voice. She fills up the once empty space next to him, having somehow snuck up on him, wearing low heels and a pale pink dress; she looks the epitome of aristocratic, with jewels dripping across her collarbone and dangling from her ears. His heart jumps at her words when they finally register, unable to help the quick glance he sends to the tables. “No,” he says immediately, turning away when he catches the unilu delegate peering at him from over the blue paladin’s shoulder. “He looks fine where he is. I don’t want to butt in.”

The princess frowns, obviously displeased at his reluctance. She crosses her arms and juts out a hip in a move that’s far too Keith-ish in nature for his liking. “You know, Lance loves to dance and—”

“Awesome,” Keith grouses.

Allura glares. “—and I’m sure he would say yes to one if someone asked.”

There’s no denying that the blue paladin has had no shortage of dance partners; ever since the band had started playing the boy had been on and off the dancefloor, spinning past him with someone new every few minutes. Some bitterness sneaks into his tone when he says, “I’ve noticed.”

“Now that’s not fair. You’ve had all evening to make your move. Don’t be upset that others are doing what you can’t.”

The words sting and Keith isn’t quick enough to hide it.

Allura’s expressions soften and he bristles a bit, less at the thought of being the recipient of someone’s pity and more knowing that he’s actively doing everything to deserve it. “Keith,” she says, and it’s soft and encouraging. “You are one of the most courageous people I know and you’ve faced things far more imposing than this.” She ducks her head to look him in the face. “It’s just Lance.”

“I know,” he says eventually, making a visible effort to relax. He sighs. “I know. It’s just… I don’t want to mess it up.”

“There’s nothing to mess up,” she assures, touching his arm. “Lance is a fellow paladin and, more importantly, your friend. You’ve been through much together and nothing could break the bond you have because of it.” She pauses, carefully manicured hands digging into his sleeve. “And if he’s the one from those visions of yours then talking to him would be the first step towards the rest of your life.”

He really regrets telling her about the flashes.

“It’s him, isn’t it.” It’s more of a fact than a question and Keith can’t even conjure up the energy to deny it.

Lance laughs again.

At his silence, Allura gasps. “I knew it! Oh! How romantic! It’s just like those books Hunk recommended to me, but better because—well, this is real, isn’t it?” Her hands clap together excitedly. “To think, the history you share is just a precursor of what is to come. It must be destiny!”

“Allura,” he warns.

“If he is from the visions, then you mustn’t just talk to him. You have to dance with Lance too! Keith, you absolutely must!”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“And why not?”

“Because, well, we’re not… it’s complicated. Plus, I don’t really dance.”

Allura tuts at him, booping him on the nose as she takes on a tone of one talking to an ignorant toddler. “Not with that attitude, you don’t. Come on. It will be fun.”

“And what if I don’t wanna have fun?”

The princess purses her lips and she tugs at his sleeve impatiently. He resists when she makes a move to drag him away from his corner, twisting away from her with a scowl. Knowing of her strength and how it outmatches his by miles, he karate chops her other hand when it reaches out for him. She gasps, offended at his defiance, and then redoubles her efforts.

“Why must you be so difficult?” she growls, circlet slipping over one pointed ear as she shoves herself in his space. Her elbow digs uncomfortably in his gut as her other hand fumbles for the wrist of his hand. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Allura, I swear—”

“Well, don’t you two look cozy.”

The two freeze and it’s almost comical, getting caught like this—the red paladin and the altean princess, important figures in their own right, mid-scuffle and cursing at each other—yet Keith doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t laugh because while they had been arguing, a figure had snuck up on them. A figure with very broad shoulders.

Allura recovers first. “Lance!”

The boy belonging to the name smiles. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Of course!” Allura gushes, letting go of Keith and all but pushing him at the blue paladin regardless of the fact that he hadn’t specified who he wanted to dance with. She takes a moment to fix her appearance, smoothing down hair and adjusting her dress, looking haughty. “I’ve gotta find Coran and make sure he’s not overdoing it on the nunvill, so you boys enjoy yourselves.”

And with that, she leaves. Leaves Keith in the middle of a party with his bonafide first and only crush.

He looks up and meets Lance’s eyes. It’s been months since he came back from the abyss and the half inch he had over the other boy is gone now, making them eye level. He knows neither of them are done growing and their heights will continue to change but Keith finds that he likes it this way for now.

“So,” Lance starts, biting his lip. “Dance?”

A quick look across the hall and his stomach flutters nervously. “I’ve never really…”

But Lance is already moving right along, grabbing his hand and tugging him in the direction of the dancefloor. Dazed, Keith lets it happen, focus torn between their clasped hands and the back of the other’s head. The crowd parts easily for them, curious looks and whispers following at their heels only to be hastily hidden when he glances away from the pinking ears of his partner. Lance must be determined to ignore their audience, expertly spinning Keith around to face him and guiding their bodies in a starting position.

The music is already in full swing and Lance takes a step to match that of the other dancers, gently tugging Keith along in a strange mix of a waltz and shuffle, confident where he is stiff.

After maybe a half a minute where they steadily avoided each other’s eye, Keith speaks up. “Is this something we do now? Dance.”

Blue eyes flicker past his face and he doesn't have to imagine the silent conversation that's happening over his shoulder. Lightning quick he looks behind him, but, much to his chagrin, Hunk has already schooled his expression from where he sits at one of the many tables and is staring back at him with all too innocent eyes.

Lance clears his throat and Keith turns back to a nervous smile. “Yeah, I thought we could try it out… See how you—er, we feel about it.”

There must have been something in the drink he had earlier of his because Keith can feel himself melting.

“It’s nice,” he says, watching as the other boy’s smile turns into something more lighthearted. “I’m not very good but, yeah, it’s… it’s nice.”

Eyes twinkle in the warm light. “I think it’s nice too.”

There’s a bit of a hitch in the music and Keith spies a few of the musicians being switched out, exchanging string instruments for ones that look like a cross between trumpets and accordions. It must be getting later in the evening because some of the dancers leave, replaced by a much younger crowd. He spots a few familiar faces, both humans—Atlas technicians, old classmates, Garrison faculty—and aliens—bounty hunters, altean colonists, royal dignitaries—all unabashedly shedding their professional appearance in exchange for a good time. The energy pulses upwards, pushing them closer together and causing the weird rumbling in Keith’s chest to give way to butterflies, transparent wings brushing along the inside of his ribs in a way that has his heart thumping madly.

When the song increases in tempo Keith accidentally steps on Lance’s foot. He cringes. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Lance assures. ”Just lighten your steps and pretend it’s a training session. Move with me, not against me.”

Keith tries the step again and nearly trips over his own feet when he miscalculates how many times his partner would step back, causing a table of girls nearby to twitter with amusement at the sight of him. Lance doesn’t mock him for his clumsiness, just adjusts his hand so it presses a bit lower on his back; Keith feels the touch like a brand, barely catching onto the way his palm shifts in accordance to the next step.

It gives Keith something to focus on and, eventually, he falls in line with the steps.

“See? You’re a natural.”

Keith snorts and Lance grins, proud. “Not really—not like you anyway. How did you get to be so good?”

“I'm Cuban,” he says as a means of explanation, swinging his hips leisurely with the beat a drummer starts playing, obviously enjoying himself. It’s… distracting. Especially when the song changes to something with more bass and he lines their bodies together, starting up a heavy sway that Keith falls into after the initial jerk of surprise. Then there’s a thigh fitting between his legs and Lance is letting go of one hip to guide his gloved hand to the small of his back, casual as can be as the boy rolls back into the touch.

“This is, um.” Keith takes in a shaky breath. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Yeah, I don’t think there are many opportunities for this out in the desert. You really missed out—the Garrison dances always ended up this way. Didn’t matter how many chaperones they assigned.” Lance’s voice is level with his ear, their cheeks brushing as they move to the music, causing goosebumps when he feels the contradictory smooth-roughness of the other’s freshly shaved skin. “But we’ll count this as making up for all the ones you missed. Better late than never, right?”

Breathing is difficult but Keith manages it, if only just. “Right.”

Lance makes a noncommittal hum, pressing closer to let a couple trip pass them. Keith watches them go from his view over Lance’s shoulder, only slightly scandalized when the shorter alien unabashedly slips a hand over their date’s backside. It causes his hand to twitch, the pad of his thumb finding the indent of his partner’s lower back through his suit. With a startling clarity, Keith realizes how far his hand has fallen and tenses, waiting for Lance to notice and take offense.

But nothing happens. No one comments on how close the two paladins have gotten, probably because they aren’t the only ones to do so. The dancefloor is a mesh of bodies, all moving to whatever dance they know and hiding them from the view of the spectators sitting at the tables. He’s not pushed away in disgust, nor is he laughed at. Instead, Lance drapes his free arm over Keith’s shoulder, smoothing down the baby hairs at the back of his neck.

It gives Keith the courage to glance over; he spies half-lidded eyes and a warm flush under golden skin. Enticed by the fluttery feeling low in his gut, he settles his remaining arm over the other’s bicep, just above the edge of his elbow-length gloves. A slow inhale, followed by an even slower exhale, and the pulse under his fingers jumps.

He’s never been held like this before, as if he was the beginning of an addictive end.

The song—the fifth they had danced to and Keith deliriously wonders where the time had gone—starts to come to a climax, and Lance stirs. He looks at the band, then the other dancers and then Keith. There’s something in his eyes and it’s like taking a deep breath before diving under, adrenaline-inducing, willing to be pulled wherever the current takes him. The moment builds like a cresting wave—higher and higher, curling with seafoam and impending desire—until Keith is sure that they're going to crash together, that he’s going to lean in closer and kiss him. Involuntarily, he slips his eyes closed.

“And now, the big finish!”

His eyes fly back open. "What—"

But Lance is already twisting them around and throwing himself backwards. And Keith has no choice but to hastily lean with him, biceps flexing as he tightens his grip around Lance’s waist and hastily puts pressure between his shoulder blades. The top of his head barely misses cracking against the floor. Still, Lance cackles like it’s great fun.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Lance says too loudly when they’re back to standing normally, clapping with the rest of the crowd as the band announces their fifteen minute break. The moment officially over. “I usually drop my partners when I try to dip them.”

“That was embarrassing.”

“Eh, you liked it.”

A little called out, Keith hunches his shoulders and scowls. “I did not.”

But Lance goes on like he didn’t say anything, giving him a million-watt smile. “We did pretty well, all things considered. Probably cause we make such a good team.”

And how is Keith supposed to keep things together when he goes and says things like that? All sincere and butterfly-inducing. “Yeah,” he tells the boy, feeling brave and scared and more than himself, making it so that the back of their hands brush. “We really are.”

After that the party winds down.

The crowds thin and people start saying their goodbyes, respectful salutes paving way for hearty handshakes and more than one inebriated embrace. There seems to be a line forming in front of Allura, everyone wanting a final word with the princess before the night is officially over; Keith merely gives a wave as he and Lance pass her by towards where Hunk and Pidge dally around the buffet table, thinking nothing of the quick smile she gives in return before looking at the diplomat talking to her, knowing that he’ll see her tomorrow at their usual movie night.

Hunk is polishing off his plate of what looks to be pigs in a blanket while Pidge shoves leftover hors d'oeuvres into her shoulder pack. “I’ve got to get this recipe,” the former is saying when the pair come within hearing distance, looking up at the sound of their footsteps and doing a triple take before not-so-subtlety nudging his smaller companion with his elbow. With both gazes trained on them, Hunk gives a too-innocent smile. “Looks like you guys had fun. How was the dancefloor?”

“Crowded,” Keith replies at the same time Lance says, “Cozy.”

The yellow paladin’s eyes flicker between them. “Okay, yeah. Well, we were gonna head out soon… Are, um, you guys gonna…”

“It is getting pretty late,” Lance agrees, leaning forward to steal the last bit of the food from Hunk’s plate before slipping around Keith and draping an arm across his shoulders. He pops the finger food into his mouth and makes a show of chewing loudly when Keith frowns. “You’re going back to the Atlas, right?” he asks him, oblivious or uncaring of the two pairs of eyes that dissect the entire interaction. “Do you think I could hitch a ride with you? I’m staying with Veronica tonight and I think she already left.”

“Sure.”

“Cool.” Lance leans away far enough that he nearly topples the two of them over and Keith has to lightly brace his hand on the other’s waist to better balance them. “See you later, paladudes.”

They four exchange fist bumps and then the red and blue paladin are angling themselves towards the exit, Keith trying not to combust when their arms stay wrapped around each other. More than one eye sticks to them and even more bodies put themselves in front of them to give a deferential goodbye; Lance takes it in stride, giving a sincere wave here and an over-the-top wink there, and it more than makes up for Keith’s own stilted replies. He only blunders once and that’s when Shiro catches his eye over the brim of a champagne glass, smile smug and unbearable.

Finally, they make it to the building’s transport dock where the Black Lion sits docilely.

The forcefield dissipates before Keith even asks and there’s a low rumble in greeting when the pair walk up the ramp, which Lance reciprocates with a light pat to one of the wall panels before following Keith to the cockpit. Then it’s just a means of setting a course to the Atlas and watching the stars pass them by as the mechanical lion does the rest.

The Atlas is empty save for the night shift, all of whom pause in their work up in the control room to watch the Black Lion land and the two paladins that exit it make their way across the room. It is almost eerie how their footsteps sound like a military march in comparison to absolute quiet that reigns once the cabin pressurizer comes online but Keith doesn’t give himself any time to consider it, not when he has a preferable distraction walking alongside him. Lance fills in the silence easily, looking princely as he charms Keith with anecdotes of parties past, laughing alongside him as he recalls the time he had won the Winter Formal crown and the resulting awkward dance that had followed, set to an early century song that he attempts (and fails) to beatbox. It makes the trip up to the floor with their quarters all the more enjoyable and when it’s over, Keith wishes it wasn’t.

Lance flashes a smile at him. “Night, Samurai.”

He sighs in return. “Night, Sharpshooter.”

Then the boy is turning around, disappearing down the hallway with only one look over his shoulder. And Keith, not wanting to look more foolish than he already has by getting caught staring at the spot his crush had occupied, quickly unlocks his door and slips inside.

His mother is in the kitchen, slicing up something that looks like a blue tomato, and looks up when he lingers in the doorway. “You’re back,” she says neutrally, transferring the food to a serving platter and pointedly ignoring the cosmic wolf that watches her every move, drool starting to collect at the base of his largest molar. “How was the party?”

He shrugs. “It was alright.”

“Just alright?”

He shuffles away and into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. His neck cranes back, giving him a perfect view of the ceiling tiles. There’s a scorch mark in the top-right corner from when Kosmo had mistaken one of Krolia’s blasters for a chew toy. He squints at it, thinking, and his mind instantly snags onto the phantom brush of thighs and the strum of an alien guitar. Mouth dry and more than a little embarrassed, he squeezes his eyes shut.

The couch dips slightly and then a clawed hand is stroking his hair, pushing his bangs out of his face and behind his ear. The gesture quells the loud noise in his chest and he lets his head dip to the side, heated cheek squished against the cool felt of the couch.

“It was maybe more than alright,” he finally answers. For some reason, it’s this admission that had him blushing and curling his toes in secondhand gratification. “I had fun, more fun than I thought I would have anyway.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She doesn’t ask, but he knows she wants to know. Better yet, he wants to tell her.

“Everyone was there.”

She hums and continues to comb through his hair.

“Shiro, Pidge and Hunk and Allura. Lance too.” A pause where he clears his throat, far from casual. “We danced.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, it was—nice.”

They sit in silence for a bit and his mind lingers on the dance he had shared that evening. He plays it on loop, going over every detail until he could sketch it out on paper, framed and made all the more real. Eventually Krolia stops her grooming in favor of offering him a slice of the strange fruit; he takes it and plops it into his mouth without question, surprised at the sweet taste.

“It’s weird, feeling this way,” he says absently, grounded but with his head in the clouds. “Weird that this is where I am. That life’s like this now.”

“The universe works in mysterious ways,” she tells him with a hum and he would scoff at such a cliche saying if it weren’t for the way his mother says it so genuinely. “Sometimes, it takes a lifetime and a half to find your place in it. I’m glad you’ve found yours.”

The flashes start coming faster and—

—Lance’s warm hand in his as they walk through a line of stalls selling alien wares. Merchants offering gossamer scarfs the same shade as the rising sun and jewelry that shines like they’ve been plucked straight from the night sky. Gaggles of children running through the streets, laughing as they dodge through the crowds. An ornate dagger purchased and gifted—

—fingers gently rubbing a sticky substance over the stretch of his cheek while a voice drones on about the benefits of skincare—

—his shoulder leaned against a doorway as he watches Lance address a class full of recruits, eyes twinkling when they catch sight of him hidden in the shadows. The loud trill of a bell and the shuffle of children eager for lunch, tempered by the arms wrapped around his neck and the kiss bestowed on his cheek—

—the shudder that goes through him as they rock into each other, skin sweaty and breathes loud. Hands gripping his thighs and his teeth nipping at an exposed neck, leaving marks so the world would know who they belonged to, now and to the end. Words whispered in the dark just as stars burst across his vision—

—eyes connecting over a crowd, secretive and happy—

—Keith fumbling with the black box in his pocket as he paces their room, repeating the words he wants to say to the man that he loves, nervous and excited and everything that comes after—

—he never wants them to stop.

They are hanging out in Keith’s room three days after the ball, sitting on the floor and leaning against his bed as they enjoy each other’s presence. Between them, Kosmo rolls onto his back, expecting belly rubs now that they’re no longer distracted by the show they had been watching, ending credits rolling after twenty-three minutes of terrible storytelling and bad animation. Lance is talking with the assumption that Keith will listen, going on loudly about how his character in the show is the main protagonist while delivering pats to the space wolf.

And Keith is… distracted.

Distracted in a sense that he can’t focus—or rather, he can’t stop focusing. On the energetic hand gestures and the expressive emotions that flit across Lance’s face as he speaks, pausing intermittently in order to coo at Kosmo and ask his opinion on things, always answered with a happy pant and an excited tail wag that has the blue paladin nodding sagely before continuing. He focuses on the way he feels now, in this moment, content like he’s never felt before.

A wet tongue licks a stripe up Lance’s cheek and he rears back, half disgusted, half charmed, and Keith can’t keep quiet any longer. Just blurts out, “We should do something this weekend.”

His friend blinks owlishly. “What?”

There’s fire coursing through his veins, invigorating him. It gives him courage to continue, to make so that the flashes are no longer flashes but memories. “I said we should do something this weekend. Do something together.”

“Yeah, okay.”

The casualness of the answers makes him think that the boy doesn’t quite understand the request. Assumes what he’s asking is for something they’ve always done. They hang out all the time, yes, but this is different. He wants this to be different.

“No, I mean we should go out this weekend.” Keith sends him a certain look, waiting for Lance to catch on.

He doesn’t catch on. “Huh?”

Dark eyes roll toward the ceiling and Keith shakes his head, and there’s that something again and oh, it’s fondness—it’s a look of fondness quirking his lips.

“What I’m saying is…” He takes a quick moment to shift on his hip so that their knees are almost touching and, after a moment of consideration, Keith slides his hand down and over until the tips of their pinkies bump into each other. “We should go out this weekend, like go on a ride out to town. Whatever you want, really.”

Lance’s blinks once, twice, three times, and—there. Comprehension floods and it takes only half a second before a high pitched noise scratches out of the boy’s throat. His eyes are wide, comically so, and he stares at Keith, mouth parting in an eclipse of a red moon. Then, just as Keith is committing the image to memory, he snaps his mouth shut and visibly shakes himself. “O-okay, I see. You mean like a scouting mission, right? For any lingering drones out in the desert. Well, yeah, um, as long as it’s okay with Shiro—”

“No,” he quickly cuts off, partially frustrated at the gap in communication and partially embarrassed that they would need clearance for what he has in mind. “I meant—a ride together—as in, you and me. No mission. Just us… together.”

The boy swallows loudly and Keith tracks the moment involuntarily.

"Oh.”

A lapse follows, not uncomfortable, but full. Keith buzzes in the aftertaste of his impromptu proposition and holy hell, he just asked Lance out. They’ve still yet to talk about the ball and how they had danced all night, and, despite the looks they receive from their teammates, neither of them have been brave enough to breach the silent agreement of keeping whatever feelings they had to themselves. However, now everything threatens to burst. His heart finally catches up to his words, beating in overdrive as he waits for an answer. But Lance seems not to care for the nervousness pulsing in his veins or the butterflies fluttering in the base of his stomach because he keeps up the uncharacteristic silence. It remains that way for a solid thirty seconds, until, finally, Keith can't take it anymore.

He clears his throat. “So, is that a yes?”

Lance jerks to attention, looking caught. “I, uh, what?”

“Do you want to go?”

Something incredible happens then. It’s wild and previously unthinkable, but Lance blushes.

He blinks and his vision doubles, half of it going auburn in a wash of caribbean light. He is by the waterfront, the sound of crashing waves dissolving into background noise when compared to the breathy laugh that washes over his face. Darkened cheeks lift in a smile that crinkles eyes and Keith goes a bit red himself at the image. The flash indulges him in a scene of utter bliss; velvety sand and supple lips, parting against his own.

Without thought he leans in, chasing the moment not yet passed. It causes present Lance’s eyes to go wide and it’s nothing like the cool burn of his half lidded gaze on the beach, salt drying on his lashes and sun-born freckles prickling his cheeks.

“I—ah, um. I—I’ll go.”

“Yeah?”

Lance looks away and then back. His voice is the quietest he’s ever heard. Almost shy. “Yeah.”

And it really is that easy.

The days go by slow after that, drawling in an agonizing pace. Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour. Nearly stagnant, Keith hangs under time’s dispassionate influence, watching the clock and willing it to move. It’s a blessing when it finally hits five o’clock on the following Saturday. He stops the pacing he had been doing for the past hour and checks his reflection for the sixth time in as many minutes, tucking and untucking his shirt and running a hand in his hair in an futile attempt to tame it. When the results only further his agitation he gives up, collecting his nerves to the best of his ability making his way out the door with the intention of a quiet getaway.

Which makes him startle when he runs into Romelle outside his door, hand raised and poised to knock. “Keith! I've been sent to retrieve you!” He sees her gaze flicker down to take in his outfit—his cleanest pair of jeans, a corded necklace with a hanging Marmora pendant, and a leather jacket so new that its tag is stuffed in his back pocket—and he stops himself from turning back around and locking himself in his closet till the end of time. “Dinner is almost ready and Coran has made the most spectacular—”

“Actually,” he interrupts, unable to maintain eye contact, “I’ve got other plans.”

Romelle opens her mouth, but Keith, knowing the girl’s knack for rambling, is already speeding through the hallway.

Unfortunately for him, the living room is not as empty as he had previously thought. The yellow and green paladin are sitting on the couch, surrounded by a hurricane of blankets and pillows, the leftovers of a raid on Shiro’s candy stache sprawled across the coffee table.

“Aw, Keith, you look nice. What’s the occasion?”

Pidge looks up and over her screen, lips curling in a sly grin that instantly puts Keith on edge. “Yeah, Keith, where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” he says immediately. Then, “Out.”

“Out with Lance I bet. Isn’t your date today?”

Hunk gasps. “You guys are going on a date?”

“How did you…?” He spots his phone on the couch next to her and huffs angrily, stomping over and snatching it back. He quickly unlocks it, frowning when his last conversation with Lance immediately pops up, the other boy having sent a barrage of emojis in affirmation that their outing was still on. “Stop looking through my stuff and for the last time, we aren’t—it’s not a date. We’re just going for a ride, maybe check out the town market. It’s whatever.”

“I don’t know, that sounds a lot like a date to me. Hunk, any thoughts?”

Hunk has just one. “It’s totally a date.”

Heat flushes his cheeks. “Don’t you have your own quarters? Why are you even here?”

Pidge leans back, priggish smirk still in tact. “Matt and N-1 are having their rebel friends over and I didn’t want to third-wheel it, so Shiro said I could crash here for the night.”

Keith internally curses Shiro and his mother hen tendencies. Outwardly, he searches for the key card he’s pretty sure he left on the table the night before. His hair falls into his face as he ducks to check under the furniture and he brushes it back behind his ear, thinking maybe it would be more manageable in a ponytail.

“Look at him.” Pidge snickers. “What a schmuck.”

Hunk shushes her with a light pat of the arm. “I think it’s sweet. It means he cares. And don’t you worry Keith, I’m sure Lance will appreciate the effort you put into today. It’s also perfectly normal to be nervous for your first date— ”

“I’m not nervous and it’s not a date.”

Their response is lost when he goes to the office in the next room and searches there. But it’s all for naught because Shiro is a veritable mess when it comes to anything other than flying because there are papers scattered everywhere and it would take hours to file through even half of it.

When he comes back out, Allura has joined them. She perks up at the sight of him, but he ignores her in favor of checking in between the cushions of the armchair. However, Allura is not deterred. “Keith, Pidge and Hunk have just informed me of your date with Lance. If I may, I have some suggestions—”

“I don’t need any suggestions. I just need to leave or I’ll be late.” Pidge squawks indignantly when Keith shoves her to check her side of the couch.

“Yes, you’re right! Punctuality is very important for these types of things. Early duflax gets the wyvin, as Coran always says.” It seems pointless to mention that not once has he ever heard Coran say that. “But if I could impart some advice before you go. Now, I don’t know much about Earthen mating rituals, but Pidge tells me that courting is a common practice here— ”

“I’m not listening.”

“—gifts are imperative for a successful—”

“Can’t hear you.”

“—when you present, do so when tensions are high—”

“Allura, please, stop.”

“—and then, finally, you must lay claim—”

“I’m leaving,” Keith announces loudly, trying and failing to drown out the giggles that come from Hunk and Pidge’s side of the couch. Forget the keycard. It’s not worth this pain. “Bye. I hope you all have a terrible day.”

They are unfazed by his words, grinning like madmen as they wave. He stalks out of the room, shoulders hunched all the way to his ears as he desperately tries to block out the kissy noises Pidge is making. He can’t believe there was a time he was worried that they would be out of his life; he must have been having an existential crisis or something because this is a new level of embarrassing.

He’s so consumed in his thoughts that he nearly barrels into Shiro on his way out. It’s only the steady grip of his automated arms that Keith doesn’t crack his head against the doorframe and give himself a concussion.

“Whoa there. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just…”

“Looking for this?”

There, dangling from Shiro’s prosthetic fingers, is a familiar key card.

Keith lets out a deep breath, a whisper of relief cooling down the anxious fire within him by a few degrees. He sends his oldest friend a strained smile and takes them. “Yeah, thanks. Where did you find them?”

“Under the couch with one of my shoes, the holoscreen remote, Hunk’s headband, and Allura’s earrings. It seems like Kosmo’s starting a life of crime.”

He lets out a chuckle, unraveling just a little less. “I should probably put a stop to that.”

Shiro nods, patting his back in that sorta awkward, manly sort of way. It’s encouraging and he steps past the other man with a deep breath. Feeling more like himself, he secures the key card to his belt loop and turns to head down the corridor, promising himself that he’ll only start running when there’s no one to catch him doing it.

“Oh, Keith?”

Keith whips around, nerves already reinflating. “Yeah?”

Shiro fails to keep his smile in check. “Have fun on your date.”

And before he can even begin to retaliate, the door is sliding shut and he’s left there, standing in an empty hallway, red to his tips.

Lance looks nice. Really nice. Really, really, really nice. It’s actually a little distracting how nice he looks.

They had met up at the east end of the loading docks and Keith had fought to keep his cool when he had spotted the tall form of his fellow paladin casually leaning against a security rail. His white v-neck and ripped jeans contrasted with the industrial setting, his denim jacket faded and adorned with a couple of pins, sleeves rolled up to showcase the collection of beaded bracelets wrapped around his left wrist. But what had truly pulled it all together was the smile he had sent Keith upon noticing him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” Lance returns. “You clean up good, Mullet.”

The compliment flusters him a little and he nearly walks straight into a support beam, only just managing to avoid it with a side-step that brings him close enough to brush shoulders with Lance. “Thanks. You, uh, you too.”

Unsure of what to say next, he ducks his head and leads them to the area the coordinator had assigned him when he had called in the favor. Section A-26 is large and the usual aircraft that docks there is nowhere to be seen; instead, there his hoverbike sits, scavenged from the Blue Lion’s cave and restored to its previous glory. He hoists himself up into the seat with practiced ease and looks down at Lance expectantly.

Pink tints the other boy’s cheeks, but there’s this mischievous smile on his face as he asks, “Why do you get to drive?”

“Because I’m the one that knows where we’re going.”

“Wow, you actually have a plan. Um, okay, then where are we going? Or is that top secret?” He bounces where he stands, looking for all the word: giddish.

“It wasn’t until you asked.”

Lance looks pleased at the response and climbs up behind Keith.

The hoverbike dips a little at the uneven dispersion of weight and he offers his hand as a brace, blushing faintly when it’s taken. But thankfully, Lance doesn’t see, focused as he is on swinging a leg over the seat and scooting close enough to Keith that his chest brushes sparingly at his back. Then hands are wrapping around his middle, loose, and it’s embarrassing how responsive Keith’s body is to the touch, rolling in one long shiver that’s unmistakable. If Lance notices he doesn’t comment on it.

“Ready to roll,” he says, breath ghosting over the shell of his ear.

Keith puts on the goggles hidden in the front compartment and passes the extra pair he brought to his back seat passenger. Then it’s a matter of twisting the throttle and feeling the engine come to life beneath them, four hundred pounds of metal under his control. And it’s like it was just yesterday he was speeding across the desert with Shiro, tasting freedom for the first time, his hands gripping the handles like they were always meant to; the circumstance has changed but the feeling hasn’t and Keith, with the luxury knowing that he’s got time on his side, grins and drives.

“Woah!” Lance exclaims when Keith tears out of the loading docks, erupting into laughter when they take a sharp turn at the gates of the Garrison compound and startle the men stationed there.

Then it’s just the open desert road, flat and red-tinged. The torrid heat follows at their backs, rolling alongside tumbleweeds and whistling in the wind that buffets the nose of the hoverbike. Dust swirls under the speeder's anti-gravity fenders, curling over the shadowy silhouettes of cacti that they fly past. It brings the beds of the distance buttes into startling focus, massive against the clear sky and infinite horizon.

It takes twenty minutes to get to their destination.

Keith parks at the outskirts of the town nearest to the Galaxy Garrison, waiting for Lance to dismount before following. Their shoulders brush a bit as they stand side by side, Keith eyeing Lance as he eyes their surroundings curiously. The town market is already in full swing, tents set up and people bustling about, buying and selling wares; already, more than one individual behind a stand is calling out to them, offering a discount if they buy in bulk.

“I thought we could walk around a bit?” he says, hoping that the idea isn't too lame. “And after—well, there’s an arcade in the plaza a few streets down and they’ve got pizza.”

His fears are unfounded because Lance just grins. "Pizza not made out of green goo? Count me in."

Things go smoothly after that. The anxiety bubbling in Keith’s chest eases and it allows him the strength to grab Lance’s sleeve and tug him in the direction of a tent hosting a repository of wind chimes. From tent to tent, they go; browsing at board games from planets even they haven’t been to, giggling over misspelled words on shirts, daring each other to try gross-looking foods and petting every dog they see.

And it’s… fun. Keith is having fun.

Lance is great. He’s nice and funny and smart and actually seems to enjoy hanging out with Keith. He nods along when Keith speaks, insanely attentive, and offers his own input with great enthusiasm. They bicker too, playful jabs volleyed back and forth, easy and natural like it never was in the beginning but is now. And although Keith has never thought himself to be an overly funny guy, he finds that pulling a laugh out of his fellow paladin isn’t all that hard and even sort of a reward on all on its own.

It’s like they fit, slotting together like puzzle pieces—or flashes.

“Hey, Keith?” Lance’s hand finds Keith’s elbow. He had discarded his jacket just before they started eating, which is doing nothing to help the hot flush rushing to the apple of his cheeks. The corded muscles of forearms on display is near impossible to ignore and Keith’s eyes follow the dips and curves of his arm, the hard muscle leading up to his shoulder, the soft line of his neck, the defined jawline. “Your fries are getting cold.”

It’s the touch that has him pulling out of the confines of his thoughts, physically shaking his head and straightening his shoulders, not wanting to appear anything less than invested.

Naturally, the world seems to think Keith can’t have a single nice thing without a price because it’s just a few minutes into their meal that his phone starts to blow up with messages. A quick glance shows that most are from his mother, with a few from Shiro sprinkled in intermittently. All of the messages are ones of encouragement, some having been sent while they were driving and others steadily ignored when the two had browsed the stalls of the market.

Eventually all the small pings get to be enough that Keith has to silence his phone.

“You’re really popular today,” Lance notes, slathering an alarming amount of ranch onto his pizza. It’s only when he drowns the unsuspecting slice that he catches Keith’s surprised and guilty look that he elaborates, “Dude, your phone has been lighting up all day. I’d be blind not to notice.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

Still, Keith feels the need to explain. “It’s Shiro and my mom. They’re… checking up on me.”

That gets a light laugh out of Lance. He brings out his own phone, showing Keith the mass of notifications on his lock screen. “I get that. I’ve gotten at least five texts asking if you’re secretly an axe murderer. I hope three years in space is enough time to confidently say that I wasn’t lying when I told them you weren’t. Would really put a damper on the day.”

“I don’t even own an axe.”

Lance’s grin grows and when he puts away his phone to continue eating, he doesn’t reclaim the few inches of space he had given away in order for Keith to see the screen. Their elbows knock a few times, but Keith doesn’t mind.

They leave the plaza in a good mood, making their way back to the hoverbike while they talk about nothing and everything. They only stop when they mount the vehicle and when Lance doesn’t ask Keith where they’re going he decides that he doesn’t want the day to be over quite yet, so he revs the throttle and heads toward the direction he knows his shack is. He eventually leads them to a hill that he and his father used to frequent when he was younger, an escape from the world long before the stars were something to shoot for.

It’s an easy hike up the hill and when they settle by the edge, their pinkies are touching.

“You can’t do that,” he says on their fourth game of tic-tac-toe when Lance brushes the dirt and erases his wobbly X, shifting it over a spot so that it blocks Keith’s next move. “That’s cheating.”

“No, Keithy boy, that’s what I call winning.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“Isn’t it?” Que pursed lips and a sly side-eye. “If it’s not, then why did you dress up for today, huh? Trying to one up me in style too?”

“This is what I usually wear.”

“Pah-lease. Like I don’t know Shiro’s handiwork when I see it. Dude’s got an eye for colors and he did you a solid keeping with the red. Bet he put up such a fuss when you kept the fingerless gloves—they scream embarrassing scene phase that never really went away.” Lance laughs when he doesn’t immediately counter the accusation and it must fuel him because he continues. “I bet you were upset when you couldn’t find any eyeliner for our date—”

As if struck by lightning, Keith straightens.

“—probably used it all up making yourself look like an edgy, space raccoon going to some street race—”

Our date, Lance had said. He had called this a date. They were on a date right now. Officially. The two of them, together.

“—being emo. But, I mean, whatever works, you know? Sometimes you just gotta paint your nails black and—mmph!”

Keith’s kiss lands on his upper lip, hard and dry.

It’s quick, over and done within a matter of seconds. Lips tingling and heart hammering, Keith pulls back, soul leaving his suddenly flushed body when he realizes he can still feel the other’s breath on his face. He must remain in his catatonic state for longer than he realizes because then Lance’s giving him this particular frown and saying, “What was that?”

With nothing else to do, he shrugs helplessly. “It was a kiss.”

“I know what a kiss is.” Eyes search his. “Why did you kiss me? ”

“I wanted to,” he says simply. “Was that not okay?”

“No, that wasn’t… No, it was cool.”

“Cool,” Keith repeats.

Lance scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. I liked it.”

“Me too,” he adds, looking down. A good portion of their game has been accidentally wiped away and he redraws it, purposefully putting all the X’s and O’s in their respective spots before Lance had decided to remake the rules. He nudges the other boy’s foot with his own, biting back a smile when they’re hooked together. “We can, um, stay here? If you want?”

“I’d like that.”

They stay long enough to watch the sun dip under the horizon.

As dates go, it’s the best he’s ever had.

Later, when he’s home and high off the promise of a second date, he walks into the kitchen to find his friends congregated despite the late hour.

“So,” Allura starts as soon as he walks in, boots loud on the linoleum floor, trying to appear casual as she leans against the counter and just failing. It doesn’t help that the space mice are nearly tripping over her hair as they peer at Keith from over her shoulder, adding four tiny pairs of eyes to the many already scrutinizing his every move. “You’re back awfully late.”

Romelle is no better, inspecting her nails even as her ears twitch in his direction. “Yes, how did it go?”

There’s a plate of cookies on the island counter, comically shaped like the lions and dressed in an assortment of colors. He picks up the only red one on top and bites into it, humming at its surprising sweetness. Knowing his audience still expects an answer, he attempts an aloof shrug and nails it. “It was fine.”

There’s a pause and Keith can tell something is coming. He doesn’t know what exactly, but the warning signs are all there, flashing neon when Allura steeples her fingers and gives him a look.

“And the other… thing?”

“What other thing?”

“Why your kiss with Lance, of course.”

He nearly drops the sweet in his hand and immediately goes to look through the kitchen pass-through, spotting the rumpled state of the pillows and blankets by the living room window looking out to the barrack’s hallway. That and the smudge of chocolate on the window sill, coupled with the candy wrappers sticking out of Pidge’s hoodie pouch, can only mean one thing. “Were you watching?”

“No,” Romelle and Hunk immediately deny just as Allura and Pidge say, “Yes.”

Keith fumbles for a plausible reaction. His friends had undoubtedly seen the goodbye kiss that had been exchanged between him and Lance when the latter had insisted on walking him home; it had been a memorable kiss and Keith had maybe lost himself to it for longer than he’s willing to admit, but that’s something else entirely. A little helplessly, he searches the room for a means of end for this absolute embarrassment. He finds none. “That’s—I can’t believe—uncool!”

“Lance texted me almost immediately after,” Hunk offers, as if that makes up for his eavesdropping and then denial of said eavesdropping. “He hasn’t stopped talking about how you sprung one on him. You don’t really beat around the bush, do you?”

Shiro, the traitor, nods. He ignores Keith’s death glare and takes a sip of his tea, eyes crinkling with mirth over the rim of his mug. “Keith has always been very straightforward in what he wants. A real go-getter.”

It’s at that time that Coran makes an appearance, dressed in an obnoxiously orange pajama set with a matching hat, but any hope Keith has of the older man causing a distraction and, by default, a new topic change dissipates when he asks, “Oh, are we talking about Keith and Lance’s kiss? Congratulations Keith, I hear it had quite the impact.”

Pidge looks like she’s barely holding back a laugh. “Yeah, way to go in for the kill, Keith.”

“Can we stop talking about this?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Stop talking. Just stop talking. I don’t want to hear another word.”

Thankfully, they listen and grow quiet. It doesn’t stop the looks that are thrown his direction, especially with Allura nearly vibrating in her slippers in the effort to capture his gaze, but it’s easy to scowl and turn away. He snatches the drink Shiro holds, ignoring the other’s surprised whine, and takes a sip, ready to head to bed and purge this conversation from his mind, never to be brought up again—

“Did you use tongue?”

Keith chokes.

Hunk merely hums. “Yeah, didn’t look like it.”

Keith thought he knew what love was.

It had been an easy thing, once upon a time. It had been his dad’s hugs after a long day, the blade left to him from a mother he didn’t know, a pat on the back following a perfect maneuver from a brother he found. It was as simple as looking up at the sky and letting himself get lost, for space was everything he had ever wanted, vast and exciting and impossible. Constant and safe and easy, a look to the heavens that held every dream.

But this is new.

New in that he is utterly blindsighted and unprepared for when it happens. A change in heart, from wistful ache to hopeful relief, sudden in the wake of new love. Stitched together through time and soft words, it beats again. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, it goes, drumming loudly against his chest, swelling at touches that burn like supernovas, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Even more goosebump-inducing than the fire in his chest is the response it gets. Because, startling enough, the feeling is reciprocated.

No words have been said but the thought is there. It comes through in the accidental brushes that turn to lingering caresses. It’s the stretch of an arm thrown over wide shoulders, heads dipped closer as casual words are exchanged. It’s the lack of space as they sit, thighs pressed firmly together and feet idly kicking. It’s the pluck of pink petals out of dark hair, absent-minded, curling in the breeze. It’s the hand pressed against a lower back, feather-light as it guides them closer and onward.

Everything is the same, but different.

Following the date, they are still Lance and Keith, still stubborn and opinionated and more than willing to call each other out, but now—now, they’re more. Keith can talk strategy for restoration while their hands are clasped under the table; can steal a kiss during a spar and, while the other is distracted, sweep his legs right out from underneath him and ensure his victory; can argue the integrity of putting pineapple on pizza for three hours while cuddled under Lance’s arm; and can even sneak the boy into his room when Shiro and his mom are out on call, leaving the door closed and the lights off. He’s allowed to do these things—encouraged, even, if Lance's pleased as punch looks are anything to go by—to look, to touch, to hold. It’s a recently discovered niche in which they fall into, each eager to explore, and once they find their line, Lance makes a point of tiptoeing it. And Keith—well, Keith can't find it in himself to complain.

(“Like this,” the Lance of his flashes murmurs to him one night as he gets ready for bed—only for the words to be spoken again three days later as they curl into each other on the beat-up couch in his shack. “I like it like this.”)

Life shapes into something remarkable in the days of after. It becomes a certainty that the flashes had promised and Keith sometimes can’t believe it, that he gets this. Gets this and more. Because not that long ago, he had nothing—he was nothing—scraping by, sneering at everything he couldn’t have just to hide how it hurt to be denied the love he so desperately craved. But that’s the past and though it shapes him, it is not him. He is here, today, and soon, tomorrow too.

Tomorrow and every day that comes after.

In a menagerie of light, meteor showers and space whales, Keith dreams.

Even so long apart, the abyss is a physical thing inside him. It curls inside in the space behind his heart while he sleeps, coveting each heartbeat like a dragon to a horde; time does not exist in this plane and each heart beat, a remembrance to what he has lived through and what he will live through, is too enticing to pass up. It croons out a soft lullaby, asking for one last look.

Keith gives it.

It’s the sand between his toes and lips meeting his own, sun-warm and pliant to the lazy breeze. It’s the hot puff of breath at his neck while frantic hands explore. It’s the ring on his finger and the sip of champagne, glasses clinking in a toast made. It’s the weight of a child on his chest, calm and innocent, snoring lightly as a small hand fists his shirt. It’s the dip of a mattress every night, for the rest of his nights.

Keith wakes up and knows that’s the last flash he’ll ever have.

On the first day of the rest of his life Lance challenges Keith to a race.

It’s not the first time one of them has issued such a dare and it surely won’t be a last, but Keith still treats it like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done. He squares his shoulder and steps up to the plate, toe to toe, staring Lance in the eye as he accepts. It’s like old times, even with the newness between them, rearing up in the deliberate way Lance tilts his head, chin jutting out in that stubborn fashion of his, the crook of his eyebrow and the curl of his lips dangerous in ways Keith is only just getting used to.

Nevertheless, the day finds them back at the loading docks, convincing the Atlas crew to let them borrow another speeder. When Keith has signed the proper paperwork he turns to find Lance already seated on one of the hoverbikes. The red one.

Keith squints and Lance grins, but lets it go with a soft huff. He walks over to the gray bike and hoists himself with little effort, straddling the sleek seat and making himself familiar with the controls.

“Ready?” he asks once he's done.

“Born ready,” is Lance’s answer.

And, well, Keith can't let a challenge like that stand.

Without further ado, he revs the engine and shoots down the catwalk. He hears the beginning of a surprised squawk before the wind is boxing his ears, tugging at his hair, chasing away everything until it is just him and the road.

Flying is in his blood. It’s been a part of him since as long as he can remember. It was there when he sat atop his father’s shoulders, arms spread wide and leaning back as far as he dared, staring up, up, up. Fondly, he recalls the way big hands had grasped his tiny ankles and the voice, deep and honest, quoting, Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.

He had been too young to understand the words then, but he thinks he understands them now.

Though the most air he gets this time around is a particularly steep ledge over a slim ravine a quarter of a mile east from Galaxy Garrison property, it still feels the same. Like he’s taking a deep breath for the first time, lungs expanding until he is weightless, free. Free to be who he is, even if that is a boy quick to anger and slow to love.

And Keith likes who he is now. Likes who he can be—with Krolia, with Shiro and the team, with Lance.

In the end, Keith wins the race.

It’s a close call and his heart races at the thought of it. Because Lance is grinning that absurd grin, eyes crinkling with the force of it, and his hair is a mess, windblown and highlighted gold by the sun. The white shirt that clings to him is twisted and Lance makes a halfhearted effort to fix it as he quiets his hoverbike’s engine and starts talking in compensation, mouth moving a mile a minute.

“I almost had you at that last bend,” he is saying, leaning back in his seat so that his torso is one sleek slant. “I shouldn't have hesitated on the acceleration—I guess I’m just not an adrenaline junkie like you, but hey, now that I know the angle, it’ll be different. So I say we go around again. Two out of three wins. Loser has to help Coran clean the—Keith? Hello? Are you even listening to me?”

It’s not a flash, but it feels like one.

“Keith?” Shoulders rise as Lance angles his head to catch his gaze, honest concern coloring those beautiful eyes. They aren’t that close, hovebikes parked perpendicular to one another, but he swears he can see the universe reflecting in dark navy. Planets colliding and forming, spinning in orbit around a dilated pupil. “Hey, man, what’s wr— ”

“Date me.”

The words are out of his mouth before he has time to really think about them and what they mean.

Lance splutters. “What?”

But now that the idea has been introduced. Keith can't deny its appeal; to keep what they have, in all its stubborn sincerity and wild attraction, going for as long as they live. Perhaps even further than that. “Date me,” he says again, with more conviction. A pause. “Please. Please date me.”

A moment, then—

“You just have to beat me at everything, don't you?” Lance starts, loud enough to be considered yelling, but having none of the thunderous anger usually associated with the volume. “Can't even give me this one thing, can you? Well, the joke’s on you—cause it was going to be great! I had everything planned out and it was going to be the most romantic thing ever! Would've blown this disaster out of the water, I'm telling you!” He stands and, uncaring of the wobble it gives under his weight, marches purposefully across the wing of his bike until they’re parallel to one another. One of his hands waves madly about, flying across the entire range of their surroundings before gesturing to Keith himself. “Candles and rose petals everywhere! Hunk was gonna cook something nice and we would've danced and—and you were gonna swoon! Straight into my arms! There would've been kissing and everything! The whole shebang!”

Keith furrows his eyebrows, lost. “What?”

But Lance blows past his confusion and slumps to the side in an expulsion of energy, mumbling, “God, you're such a jerk.”

Hands move to grip the front of his shirt, the only warning before the entire weight of his maybe-boyfriend is forced upon him. Keith feels the wisp of eyelashes fluttering against the column of his neck as Lance smooshes his nose into the junction there, mumbling words and noises he can't hope to translate. He returns the clumsy embrace automatically, winding his arms around the other’s waist and resting his cheek on a soft, brown crown of hair.

“So… yes?”

Lance laughs a watery laugh, deliriously happy, and leans back to stare him straight in the eye, a whirlwind of blue caught in a crystal ball of stars. The grip on his shirt loosens, fingers trailing up his chest until they tease the nape of his neck. “Of course it's a yes, you absolute loser.”

Keith frowns even as his heart sings, melody erupting into fireworks so loud he might go deaf. “See, it's stuff like that last part that really mix me up.”

“Oh my gosh, just shut up and kiss me.”

So he does.

Time, like most things in Keith’s life, is something he keeps close.

#klance #voltron #vld #laith #keith x lance #keith kogane #lance mcclain #voltron legendary defender #aeon #fanfiction #writing #chomp chomp goes the raptor

12 notes · View notes

infernobot · 3 years

Text

TEETH?

Teeth?

By InfernoBot

I had just finished recording, and was carrying my dog in from the office, when my mom handed me an envelope. Once I had my sweet pupper nestled into a blanket, I joined her on the couch and slit open my mysterious delivery. Inside was no note, just a brochure to something called ‘Furnal Equinox’ and an accompanying plastic badge bearing the image of a anthropomorphic dog, (maybe it was a wolf), wearing a graduation cap and gown.

As my eyes scanned the glossy pages, my excitement grew; some lovely person had sent me a weekend pass to a furry convention! This was my big chance to make a video detailing my adventures through a mass gathering of one of the internet’s most maligned and misunderstood subcultures. Over the coming weeks, I studied the brochure, read up on the panelists online, noted every question about the furry fandom that popped into my head. My itinerary for the whole weekend was mapped out.

Super chats and KoFi tips managed to cover the cost of a bottom-barrel airline ticket, and I got a great deal on an Air B&B from a charming indiginous woman named Semide, whose sisters had enrolled in college and left their rooms vacant. She was even kind enough to include meals as part of the deal. The weekend of the con finally rolled around; I threw my things in a bag and I was off to Toronto.

Eighteen hours and three layovers later, I was sitting at my host’s kitchen table with a warm towel draped over the back of my neck, sipping a cup of coffee. It turned out Semide was a naturopathic healer and knew some kickin’ remedies for aches, pains and jet lag. I don’t put much stock in essential oils, but damn if I didn’t wake up feeling fresh and ready to face the day the next morning. The convention was being held on the waterfront about nine blocks from Semide’s place, not too bad for a walk, and I reckoned I could make the trek each day.

I left late in the morning, well after the con had opened. No sense waiting in line, I figured. It was three blocks from the Westin Harbor Castle, when I saw the first fursuit.

There was no explaining the rush of exhilaration I felt. This was real. This was happening. I was gradually being surrounded by dozens of people decked out in bright, elaborate costumes. Some that couldn’t afford full suits wore just heads and gloves, giving a ghoulish Frankenstein’s monster appearance to their character. Or the wolf-man caught mid transformation after being bitten by a neon fox in a rainbow pride shirt. The less daring, or particularly destitute, settled for headbands with animal ears and strap-on tails.

Waiting to cross the last street, I was elbow to elbow with a giant Sonic the Hedgehog and a seven-foot tall purple giraffe sporting a quadruple-XL adult diaper. Something told me before the weekend was over, that particular garment would get filled. Before I could contemplate the logistics further, the light changed and the extremely polite, if curiously dressed herd moved into the street and we sorted into a semblance of a line being steadily processed through the doors into the main convention hall. I was in.

The lead-up to the main event hadn’t prepared me for what lay inside. A teenage girl in a ‘volunteer’ shirt thrust an opaque plastic bag into my hands before Big The Cat shoved me aside and began professing his undying love for her beauty. I stumbled into the row of booths on the main floor, further progress blocked by an electric green armadillo strumming an acoustic guitar with a stuffed fish tucked in the strings.

This was it, I weaved my way between con-goers and took it all in. Clip-on LED cat ears. A custom-fit fang booth. Stacks of comics focused on humanoid animals. Racks upon racks of faux-leather collars and leashes. The waifu pillows. I pulled my phone from my pocket and approached the nearest open booth.

Time for an interview, I thought.

Eight hours, two energy drinks and a box of granola bars later, I was dead on my feet. There was no way of knowing how many people I’d talked to as the day progressed. Or just how strange my conversations had become. I think I spoke at length with Cool Cat about the merits of various vape pens, despite the fact I don’t smoke. But it hadn’t all been nonsense.

Before I had degenerated into a gibbering wreck, I had chanced to be standing beside a fountain near the food court and heard a familiar warbling voice behind me. To my great delight, when I turned around I found a young woman with jet black hair, a hawaiian shirt and a black & yellow long-Furby draped over her shoulders; I instantly recognized her as Teya from Strange Aeons. After she’d finished speaking to her friend, I politely tapped her on the arm and introduced myself. She turned out to be super cool, excited to meet another youtube creator, and talked to me for about ten minutes as her girlfriend went off to wait in line for the bathroom.

While most of our conversation centered around videos and our special boy Greg, my eyes kept getting drawn back to Thursday Plurbonym Boyporridge. His black and yellow checkered belly, his luxurious black fur, those piercing green eyes; it was all so captivating. I couldn’t quit looking at the charm necklace below his little yellow beak spelling out his name; Thursday. Eventually, I complimented her on her videos and her handsome long-son one last time and we parted ways. It had been a pleasant break, but even here, the persistent strains of Insane Clown Posse that permeated the space were grating on my nerves.

When the time had come for all the furry folk to close up shop and head home, I staggered out into the street with all the lingering con-goers. Despite the initial culture shock, most of the people I’d met had been great. I could stand here, elbow to elbow with ponies, foxskies, giant pomeranians and adorable cat girl maids on the steps of Westin Harbor Castle, and just enjoy the last moments of the sun setting over Toronto. That is until the moment was shattered by an obnoxious voice that sounded more like it belonged outside a Patriots game accompanied by the echo of shattering beer bottles.

“Now that the party’s over, we can get down to the afterparty at my place; which of you bitches wants to come home with me?”

My head swiveled like a tank turret toward the source of the voice, my face bearing the expression which must have read did this motherfucker just?

A man-child wearing a My Little Pony t-shirt that had been stretched over his prodigious girth, a pair of denim jorts hanging past his knees and sweat-stained socks encased in mandles, slid his oily bulk up behind a group of teenage girls dressed as some kind of anime cat maids. He leaned his acne-studded face in close to them and said, “Since you’re dressed as maids, how about I take you home and make you change my cumm-y bedsheets after a night of passionate love-making.”

The overly-polite locals may have been in shock, but I knew a neckbeard when I saw one and knew immediately what to do.

“How ‘bout you back the fuck off bro, they’re kids.”

Maybe he wasn’t expecting resistance, but he seemed genuinely taken aback by someone speaking up. Once he got a look at me, he re-adjusted his fedora and stared me down. I admit, I might not look terribly intimidating; bulky, but not muscular, with my hair dyed bright teal and swept to one side. At least I had on a Pink Floyd t-shirt, that felt a little like a layer of protection against his fed-aura. He drew in a snot-choked breath and continued,

“They’re dressed as the maids from Painappuru No Oshiri, they’re harem girls that’re totally thirsty for the main character. Each maid is eager to bend over and present their ripe ruby star-fruit to their master. They’re, like, practically advertising how much they want it in the ass.”

“Why don’t you leave them alone, fuckmuppet?” I retorted. “You look like you're forty and they’re a bunch of teen girls.”

He was not pleased with my argument. The group of cat-maidens had shaken off their surprise and closed ranks. But they weren’t ready when he lunged forward and grabbed at the petticoat of the red cat-maid on the outside, lifting her skirts up to expose the shorts underneath.

“It’s not even a chick, it’s a dude. Chill out.”

A glance at the cosplayer’s face revealed a mask of burning red embarrassment, fear and confusion. Their friends were moving to grab at the neckbeard’s hand, but I was quicker. I swatted his arm like I was chopping down the internet itself and pushed right up in his face. Practically nose-to-nose, I couldn’t avoid the stench of fermented funyuns rolling off his breath.

“Keep. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off of them.”

His chins quivered slightly.

“Oh, you wanna start something, Rainbow Brite? I bet you like it in the ass, prancy-boy.”

“For a supposedly straight guy, you sure are obsessed with getting your dick in a guy’s butt.”

The flab of his cheeks reddened to match his acne.

“You’re gonna regret that. I’m a man with a very particular set of skills…”

I cut him off; I didn’t have the patience for a real-life copy pasta.

“Is one of your skills getting punched by me? Cause if you keep talking, you’re going to be teaching a master class.”

I could feel that neckbeardy-bravado wavering. Perhaps he could sense the crowd around us had turned against him, moving to shield the cat-maids and staring daggers into his lumpy flesh. With one last snotty huff, he turned and stormed away; the sound of his mandles slapping on the concrete echoed off the face of the convention center.

A group of several of the more adulty-er people had ringed the victims and were doing their best to calm them down. I shuffled over and started to apologize for the beardo’s behavior, when the red cat-maid began thanking me profusely and asked for a hug. Apparently, this was not the first time their group had been approached at the convention. We stood around chatting for a while, and they promised to check Evangelion when they got home. Once the cat-maids were safely in their Lyft, I waved them goodbye and turned to make my journey home for the night.

I started back up the street I'd taken this morning, but as I approached the doorway to a grimey building, I became aware of a fully-suited Yogi Bear propositioning a man dressed like Linda-Carter-era Wonder Woman. I was pretty wiped out and didn’t have it in me to process an altercation like this if they noticed me and instead took an abrupt right turn down an alley, intending to zig-zag back to my Air B&B.

I was nearly out the other side when my ears picked up the slapping of mandles on pavement rushing up behind me. A searing pain burst into existence in my lower back, like someone put a cigarette out on my spine.

I went down, hard.

The mylar swag bag I’d been swinging around all day splashed into a puddle off to one side. I was barely able to heave myself over onto my back to get a look at my attacker. It was him. The Neckbeard. He stood over me, grinning, his yellowed teeth visible in the night. The little black box in his hand flickered with a blue spark as he triggered the taser again.

“Heh heh. You like that, princess? I aimed a little high so I wouldn’t damage your sweet ass.”

“Fuck….you….” I gasped out through the pain. My muscles were cramping like someone had dug a burning fork into my lower back and twisted it up like a plate of spaghetti.

“Heh. You’re the one taking it in the ass, rainbow bitch.” He stepped over me, squatting like a linebacker, bringing the taser close to my face. “Maybe I’ll push this in your eyeball and see if I can make it boil.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of movement between his legs. Something thin and dark darted up from the shadows, toward his exposed back. He let out a cry of surprise, and shot upright, swinging his arms wildly behind him, grabbing at something. He hopped wildly from foot-to-foot across the alley, the tail hanging from the back of his pants swaying wildly with the movement. I thought it was weird I hadn’t noticed the tail before, especially with how long it was, practically sweeping the ground. The fuzzy black appendage was moving...wrong. It kept curling up and twisting out of his hands as he grasped at it, almost as if it were...alive.

“Oh Goddamnit!” He screamed. “What the fuck, dude?!”

He dropped the taser and got a grip on the tail with both hands, tugging on it. A ripping sound echoed through the alley as the seat of his pants tore out. The thing was, the tail wasn’t attached to his pants, it was going in through his pants, nestled between his prodigious posterior cheeks like one of those fetish plugs. As he violently jerked it side-to-side, it was ripping at the fabric of his trousers, the same went for his less-than-tidey whiteys.

“Get this fucking thing off of me!” He howled.

He grunted as the tail slipped his fingers and wriggled another foot inside him. Tears were welling up in his eyes and he collapsed back against a green dumpster. Like a man who had gambled on a street taco truck and lost, he bit his knuckle and gripped his abdomen through his stained t-shirt. It might have been a trick of the light, but I swear I could see his belly distend and squirm; the words ‘Friendship Is Magic’ bulging as something rolled under them.

His mandles dug into the alley grime as he feebly kicked his legs, and I could only watch in disgust as the rest of the fuzzy, black, thing slithered up inside him, forcibly dilating his leather cheerio. It was incredible. I could actually see its progress as it wormed its way through his body. He blubbered something about God and Jesus as his hand clawed frantically at his own belly, before his voice abruptly went silent.

There was a long, drawn-out wheezing sound, like one of those novelty rubber chickens, as the bulk of the thing moved up his throat. I don’t know how his flesh distended and deformed without bursting, but it reached his mouth and his jaw opened wide. First one small black, fuzzy ear lined with black and yellow plaid popped up, then another, followed by the crown of this thing’s head, pushing his teeth outward like flower petals blooming.

It rose before me, straight up from his mouth, its black and yellow belly slick, but not stained by his juices. His dislodged teeth clung to its matted fur like an obscene necklace. It swayed slightly in the moonlight, a pair of luminous green eyes fixed on mine, and its beak opened. With the rising inflection of someone asking a question, it uttered one word:

Teeth?

#strange aeons #moonhorse #furby #long furby #fan fiction #Teya

7 notes · View notes

secret-engima · 4 years

Text

Sloppy Unedited gift for SparkleCryptid

(So the last Aeon chapter broke my Feels so obviously I HAD to do an angsty fusion piece with my Corling Frisk. Obviously. There’s a humorous Omake at the end to make up for it tho? @sparklecryptid I hope you like it!

...

-Frisk falls back into his … original world when he’s 15. It’s his choice to leave. His choice to make the leap rather than let himself be used as a reset. He won’t let it happen. His family has their happy ending, a REAL happy ending, where everyone is alive and Asriel is whole and and HAPPY and not trapped as a flower like he nearly was. Frisk will not let his ability be what ruins that for them.

-And so Frisk jumps and falls.

-He wakes up in a strange world where there are no sentient Monsters, where there are only humans and the night-creeping daemons that have no Souls, no Hearts … nothing. They are empty. They are terrifying.

-It’s hard, being a blind teen in a strange world.

-It gets both harder and easier when, in the middle of stumbling his way through the wilds, his body shakes and sweats and all his senses Wake Up until it physically hurts. Until he can hear the heartbeat of wildlife what feels like half a mile away and feel the whisper of the air on his skin like a knife blade.

-How he survives what he will later learn is called Presenting, out there in he wilds he will never know.

-But he does. He picks himself up and survives. He finds odd jobs in little places that take pity on a blind teenager —Omega Sentinel, they whisper, and Frisk does not know what it means but it makes them treat him kindly and so he accepts it for now—.

-But Frisk never stays in one place for long, he doesn’t like it, but if he stays for too long, people ask Questions that he cannot answer. So he leaves before they can.

-He should have stayed put.

-He finds the Tempering Grounds by accident, drawn there by the voices of the ghosts, the lingering whispers of energy and Soul that reminds him almost- ALMOST of monster kind.

-He realizes too late that this place is the rare place with an automatic save point that overrides his last one only once he’s deep inside the Grounds, leaving him without an easy way out.

-Gilgamesh finds him moments after that.

-And Frisk is a Pacifist, but he does not want to die, he’s died too many times already since falling into the Underground, and then coming here, so when Gilgamesh attacks, Frisk fights back. He fights defensively, but viciously, and his magic gives Gilgamesh pause. Frisk flinched when metal fingers grip his chin too tight and a cold, hollow voice orders him to open his blind eyes.

-Frisk doesn’t know it, but his eyes are distinctive.

-Gilgamesh has only seen one person with that shade of blue before, and with talent so bright that this blind, untrained Sentinel child can survive him for even a few moments, let alone as long as Frisk has.

-Gilgamesh knocks Frisk out and drags him deep into the grounds.

-Frisk is only 16 years old.

-He doesn’t know how long he spends there, fighting, learning, scrabbling to survive when Gilgamesh keeps trying to push him into fighting to kill and Frisk refuses to do so. He dies three times before he learns it’s better to take his beating and crawl to the garden to recuperate rather than try to escape. The save point is too close to where Gilgamesh finds him, and he is so very tired of fighting Gilgamesh and praying he takes an interest in Frisk again rather than slipping past his guard and killing him, forcing another reset to that blasted save point.

-Frisk doesn’t know how long he spends in that place with the things that are like Souls but Not. But eventually … he is no longer along.

-He hears Gilgamesh return from the entrance, can tell by the shift of fabric and flesh and the heartbeat thrumming to his constantly enhanced hearing (a necessity around Gilgamesh, who takes no pity for the headaches learning to control his “Sentinel senses” causes, who’s only mercy is to let Frisk writhe on the ground in a zone-out without stabbing him until Frisk can drag his senses under control and use them to compensate for his blindness) that Gilgamesh does not return alone. Gilgamesh flops the unconscious body Frisk will soon learn is the boy named Aeon, and coldly tells him that this is his brother and they will both be trained.

-And Frisk is no longer alone.

-For Aeon’s sake, Frisk wishes he still was.

-And Aeon is not like Frisk. Aeon is quiet and cold and predatory, all raw edges and anger that Frisk remembers too well and refuses to bend to again. Aeon takes to Gilgamesh’s training like a fish to water, even when the water is poison and makes him scream.

-Aeon tries to stay away from Frisk at first, but Gilgamesh is a brutal master and survival is hard enough without trying to remain aloof. He throws them into joint training, forces Aeon to guard Frisk when he loses control and falls into a zone-out, forces Frisk to use magic to defend Aeon while Aeon shudders on the floor from the breaking of a forced Bond.

-When survival is on the line, it is impossible not to become close. When the only other living being there is in the same boat as you, it becomes impossible not to trust. Despite their vastly different personalities, despite how Gilgamesh learns to hurt Aeon to try (and fail) to force Frisk to fight to the death, despite how Gilgamesh starts to punish Frisk every time Aeon does not “live up to his potential” … they trust each other. Wholly, Utterly. They do not agree on everything (Aeon does not understand why Frisk has so much magic yet will not kill, Frisk does not understand why Aeon is so stubborn he will not run away while Frisk covers for him, because he would if Aeon would just agree to leave him behind) but they are all the other has. And so there is trust.

-(And if at night Frisk curls around his younger, littler brother and whispers stories of the Underground, of Mercy and Resets and Souls, if Frisk tells Aeon the secret of the Dust on his hands and how if he starts killing again he won’t be able to stop, if one day Aeon sees Frisk anger Gilgamesh too far and screams as the armored ghost snap Frisk’s neck, only for the world to shiver and reset to just before that disastrous spar gone wrong because Frisk has chosen to lock himself deeper in the Tempering Ground with save points to keep from leaving Aeon alone… well.)

-(Aeon may not understand where his older brother is coming from, or why he choses a cycle of death over landing a killing blow himself, Aeon believes. In the Underground, in the Save Points, in Frisk’s genuine inability to kill being something other than cowardice or lack of skill. He does not understand, but this is Frisk. There is no one else in the world he would believe more at this point. He can’t afford anything else)

-Together they spend a long time in the Tempering Grounds, scrounging for food in the garden, whispering stories to each other of their respective pasts and the different Outsides they grew up knowing. Gilgamesh tries to mold them into perfect weapons, torments one when the other will not break, batters both when they do not yield, and in the process forges the two into a conjoined pair. A set of tools that any warrior craves. Because Aeon is a sword, sharp and unyielding and deadly. And Frisk still will not kill, but his magic is fast and strong and unyielding as a finely crafted shield.

-It is Frisk’s magic that buys Aeon a moment to get under Gilgamesh’s guard and draw blood.

-Gilgamesh laughs as he lets them go.

-Frisk shivers under the touch of sunlight and fresh air, cannot even bring himself to care about the stranger who makes interested noises at finding two feral children rather than the one he threw into the Grounds (Frisk still watches, still tracks with ears and nose to make sure the man does not get too close to Aeon).

-They wander. It never occurs to them to separate. Somewhere amid the hunts that they both take (Frisk will not kill, but he is not afraid to flip grand horns onto their backs to keep Aeon safe, and Aeon no longer questions why he is always the one to land the killing blow), Aeon Presents. Frisk mutters curses the entire way back.

-Dave the Hunter teaches Aeon how to Shield and it’s clear from the other lessons he throws in that he expects the two of them to bond. Apparently that’s the norm for Sentinels and Guides that are as conjoined at the hip as Aeon and Frisk.

-They don’t bond. A bond is not a gift to them. It is a chain. It is the pain and freezing cold that bites Aeon’s soul, and the agony of being pinned down by a metal foot and forced to listen as another screams. So they don’t bond. Frisk will not ask that of Aeon, and Aeon will not offer.

-Aeon does, however, reach out and wrap his newfound shields around Frisk’s mind when the world becomes too much, and the iron control that keeps him balanced on a knife’s edge of “seeing” the world through enhanced senses and losing himself to a zone-out slips and he falls into the white hot jumble of too much world-sound-smell-life. Aeon’s touch is rough when he pulls Frisk back and wraps shields around his mind, but that’s alright. Frisk trusts him. Frisk knows him.

-It’s not his old home. It’s not the family he misses so deeply, but it’s … well enough he supposes. It could be worse.

-They overhear talk of the prince, and Frisk does not flinch as his younger brother carves a bloody path to the back of the truck.

-Aeon growls when Frisk agrees unthinkingly to walk the prince back to Hammerhead … or until the Crownsguard find them.

-When Cor spots Noctis, the little prince is leading not one, but two bedraggled boys, one in each hand, and something in Cor screams when he sees Aeon’s face and blue eye. The other boy is a mystery for a moment, but then he shakes his shaggy brown bangs out of his eyes and Cor sees that specific shade of ice blue, sharp against Frisk’s naturally darker skin.

-Aeon goes down to the sniper, and before the Crownsguard have even reached the halfway mark to him, Frisk’s magic is there as he screams. Blue bones of magic erupt from the ground, cracking ribs and pinning the enemy down in a strangle-hold JUST shy of being fatal while Frisk presses his hands against the bloody wound and wails like a wild thing.

-Cor ends up knocking Frisk out, it’s the only way to let anyone even reach Aeon to give him medical care, because while even in his panic Frisk will not kill, that does not stop him from summoning Gaster Blasters to threaten all who come too close.

-The brothers wake up in Insomnia. Cor convinces Aeon to stay, and where Aeon goes, Frisk goes.

-Cor is Very Unhappy about the state of both his newly discovered sons. One a feral weapon with scars, the other a blind boy with even more scars and magic unlike anything they’ve ever seen (it’s not Lucis Caelum or Oracle magic, Regis is certain, but what option that leaves … they do not know).

-Frisk is … just wondering if maybe this place will be okay, if these people who treat them with kindness will be alright, when the snap bond happens between Aeon and Gladio. All thoughts of how they are a bit like the Monsters of his home get thrown out the window when he hears Aeon’s wail and feels the emotions that erupt. He knows that reaction, he knows what it means.

-Frisk is not a violent person by nature, but his sole understanding of bonds comes from listening to Gilgamesh force and break one in Aeon over and over and over (Frisk only spared because he is a Sentinel and no bond can be formed between two Sentinels as far as I know?). As far as he knows, a bond is a weapon, a chain meant to break people and this stranger has just attacked Aeon.

-It’s instinct to lash out, to slam down a wall of bones around Aeon while Aeon tries to finish the problem, and it’s a Very Good Thing Cor is as good as he is (and had backup), otherwise Gladio might have gotten seriously hurt.

-Frisk makes no sound as Aeon starts to break and cry, just huddles in a corner and shakes silently. He has to stay calm, he has to stay focused, this is Aeon’s pain, not Frisk’s, so Frisk has no right to cry too. He doesn’t. He has to stay strong. He is the Shield and Aeon is the Sword and Frisk needs to protect.

-But how can he protect against something he cannot touch?

-How can he protect against scars already there?

-Later on, Aeon passes out and Frisk flinches from Cor’s hesitant touch. His skin is burning with sensation, he’s maybe an inch away from a very bad zone-out, but he holds on, because these people are Not Safe and Aeon is unconscious. Aeon needs him. So Frisk huddles by the bed and sets his sightless eyes on the wall and stretches his senses out to keep watch as Cor fidgets and hesitantly asks questions only to give up and leave after Frisk’s prolonged silence.

-It’s only when it’s just him and Aeon, when he knows there’s only one other person nearby (in the next room, with clothes that sound like a uniform and scent that reeks of frustration and rage even though it’s restrained, not Cor, but that glaive who was there when he and Aeon first woke up and needed to find Aeon’s beads), that he lets himself whisper, “I want to go home.”

-There is no answer.

-But he knew that already.

-Frisk buries his face in his knees and focuses on breathing. Things will get better, he tells himself. Things have to get better. Even in the darkest hour in Gilgamesh’s clutches, even back when he was a tiny child and was told that it was Kill or Be Killed, he had hope. The only time he didn’t have hope was when he was on the Genocide Run, and he is never going to slide that far again. He and Aeon will find a way to fix this.

-He just has to stay Determined.

-He just has to stay …

-He just…

-Frisk clutches his knees tight and reels his senses in until he can only sense the room around him, granting himself a vague illusion of privacy as he cries.

(Cheerful Omake since the Angst in this hurt me!)

What if Flowey Was There:

-It’s funny watching his little brother lose a war with a flower.

-Not that he’ll say that.

-“Flowey,” Frisk calls dryly, “Please let him up, Aeon isn’t going to run off and do something stupid without us.”

-Flowey just scowls, trying to look hateful but only coming off as stressed while Aeon squirms, face slowly turning red from being upside down as he wrestles Flowey’s vines, “Oh really? Then why did I find him in that ghost ground with you that I had to break you two out of huh? He wasn’t with you before, so he must have wandered in on his own like an IDIOT- OW.”

-Aeon flips, landing on the ground in a smooth movement, then rocks a little as his blood pressure settles. Flowey curses up a blue streak as his vine regrows. Aeon just sheathes his sword with a sour look, “You’re a plant, not my PARENT. You can’t tell me what to do.”

-“The heck I CAN’T. You’re Frisk’s baby brother, which means you’re MY problem until Frisk decides you’re not worth it! Which is going to be NEVER because Frisk is an ANNOYING EMOTIONAL SAP LIKE THAT.”

-Frisk steps in before another fight can start, “Let’s just track down our mark for that hunt alright? It’ll be easy and simple.”

-It’s perhaps a good thing Frisk can’t see, otherwise he would have died of laughter from how Flowey and Aeon pulled off identical deadpan expressions, “Well now that you’ve SAID that,” Flowey grumps, “we’ll probably have to go rescue a kidnapped prince or something.”

-Frisk can literally hear Aeon roll his eyes, “The only prince around on this continent is safe in Insomnia.”

Four Hours Later:

-Flowey: “I TOLD YO-”

-Aeon and Frisk at the same time while Noctis stares wide-eyed at the talking plant poking out of Frisk’s backpack, “Shut up Flowey.”

#Secret Engima Rambles #Melodies and Manuscripts #We All Have Battle Scars (Keep Marching On) verse #other people's fanfiction #xover #sparklecryptid #flowey #oc frisk #long post

86 notes · View notes

feyariel · 3 years

Text

Fey’s D&D Woes, Partie Deux:

What Campaign Would I Run?

I have a few ideas for a campaign I would run, regardless of group. For this group, it’s probably a choice between Rise of the Runelords and Strange Aeons. Below is just me weighing pros and cons; feel free to comment.

Rise of the Runelords

Pros

I own it in print

Minor Lovecraftian elements, especially towards the end

Establishes Golarion

Pretty straight-forward

Options for combat, investigation, crafting, and socializing

Great for beginners, appreciated by experienced players

Well-written

Cons

Not especially novel

The last campaign I ran

I don’t particularly find The Seven Deadly Sins compelling

Have to look elsewhere for the Elder God they might awaken

Strange Aeons

Pros

H.P. Lovecraft. (The shop is named “Nameless City” because the owner is that much of a Lovecraft fan.)

Weeeeeeeeeird.

Cons

Haven’t looked through it yet

Probably need to have a better grasp of Lovecraftiana (I’ve read some, but not enough -- and I never finished Call of Cthulhu, which is the only part of the actual mythos I have read [unless Herbert West, Reanimator is part of it]) = significant homework

Reign of Winter

This was the module series I ran for my kinda crappy, overpopulated newbie campaign a few years back

Pros

Weather! Difficult terrain! Survival campaign!

Well-written dungeons (indoor and outdoor)

Lots of travel -- with a TARDIS!

Russian folklore!

YOU GET TO KILL RASPUTIN!

AND BABA YAGA! (I think.)

Fey? FEY!

Cons

Weather! Difficult terrain! Survival campaign!

Seriously, the above. Survival campaigns are where all that bookkeeping about what equipment you have comes in. It’s Oregon Trail, except you have to do the paperwork. (There are some other APs that do this, but not many because it takes the right group.)

If you don’t want to deal with the cold, there’s a campaign trait that gives you Cold Resistance 2. That turns the rest of the survival issues (wind, snow and ice as difficult terrain, wind-blown snow, frozen water, etc.) as more annoyances than as dramatic obstacles

The game is on rails:

-No real room for crafting, town stuff, etc.

-The TARDIS does that thing where the TARDIS won’t let you leave wherever it sets you until it decides it’s ready

If you don’t know Russian folklore, none of the encounters make sense up until the fifth book.

If you don’t know anything about the Russian Revolution, the fifth book doesn’t make sense. This was the second major problem my newbie campaign faced, but it ruined the game.

Ashardalon Cycle

This is the pseudo-AP from 3.0 that introduced Ashardalon, the most badass dragon in all of D&D. I say “pseudo” because the adventures are only loosely interconnected, unlike most of Paizo’s.

Pros

I’ve played Sunless Citadel (it was either my first or second game ever) and was an audience to the DM who ran The Standing Stone in undergrad, so I’m mildly familiar with it.

It’s loose enough that if I chose, I could easily integrate Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil or another module into the mix -- making a Frankensteinian mess of modules into my own campaign.

A. SHAR. DA. LON. This is the dragon who’s set up a cult to initialize his apotheosis after he’s replaced his heart with a Balor -- not the heart of a Balor, no, an en-fucking-tire balrog.

Generic D&D setting, meaning I can plop it into any world I choose so long as I excise specifically Greyhawk bits (unless I don’t care to).

Cons

3.0, so all parts of the modules will need updating to Pathfinder at least.

More prep work on top of the rest because the modules are so loosely connected.

Pretty sure there’s no intrigue in any of the series.

Bumming a Campaign Off of My Old DM

Pros

Some of his ideas were rather fun!

I’m intimately familiar with the workings of one (having played in it) and the other I know enough about to use

Cons

Not mine, so will be a mixture of asking him and coming up with stuff on my own (so may as well run my own)

Creating My Own Campaign

Pros

Freedom! Creativity! Huzzah!

Cons

A mountain of prep work I do not want to do

I don’t have an idea for where to start.

I get sidetracked by the power privilege allowance I have to make the setting work as I want. Like, elves are now True Fey rather than Humans with Pointed Ears and Oddly Long Lifespans.

7 notes · View notes

gretchensinister · 4 years

Text

True Ending

I wanted to write a scene thinking about different kinds of immortality, without worrying about a whole story. And so I did. The blacksand link is real, but you don’t need to know what blacksand is to check this out, if you’re curious. 4,451 words.

***

This time, they spot him standing near the edge of a broad balcony. His position looks precarious, though that’s not so much because of where he’s standing as it is due to his height. The railings around the balconies of this beautiful building are low, and he is, as always, very tall for the people he’s among. It looks as if it would take nothing more than a sudden change in the wind to tip him right over the side—for, as usual, he is also very thin for the people he’s among. He’s not dressed in black, though. That might have thrown them off a few dozen lives, a few dozen planets ago, but by now…well, they’d know him anywhere. To be materialistic, it frees up a lot of a being’s brain-processing power to recognize patterns, rather than to interpret a thing, or a person, whole and entire upon every encounter. Their intelligence must have started out with that shortcut somehow, whatever they were originally. And by now, they’ve had enough practice to be very, very good at it.

Of course, seeing him again, here, now, another world, another time—it shows that the materialistic viewpoint isn’t the complete overlook of the universe, and they’re glad, so glad.

He hasn’t spotted them yet, and so they don’t approach him yet. There’s no hurry. Only twenty meters or so of creamily smooth stone tiles to cross, and then they’ll be together. And then something will start. It always does.

So for now, they only observe him. Not in black this time, but a deep, deep blue. The blue is in the form of a cloak that reaches to his knees, with wide, bell-like sleeves. The long skirt he wears underneath the cloak is the same shade. The way it moves in the wind off the sea makes them think that it must contain far too much fabric to be spread out in a flat circle, like the tail of an overbred fighting fish. And all that blue is relieved by metallic edges on both cloak and skirt, some strange material that shines like chrome, but dark—like water at night.

Such shimmering, such billowing, even as he stands perfectly still! What a wonderful world this must be, they think, though they don’t examine the thought. Thoughts about the world are powerful thoughts, and sometimes the world is very fragile.

And they’d like to stay in this one for a while. To have no goal, no grand ambition. To make a living tending a garden of fantastically rare plants, or somehow—somehow always having enough, and doing nothing but beautifying and expanding a house, far off the beaten path.

But there’s always something. It can never be put off forever. Somehow, they are never even old when they take up their weapons at last.

He, and they, and a few others—this fate is always theirs, as they are never quite of these worlds, though they are so infinitely, intimately tied to the ways they are sustained or destroyed.

He is probably thinking about that, too, standing on this balcony of smooth stone, cut into diamond-shaped tiles, fitted together in seamless starbursts of gentle blue, green, and pink. Standing and gazing at the sunset sky and sea, blue, pink, and green, and the sun laying a path of gold over the endlessly waving green water. The Emerald Sea, they think. A simple name, but there’s nothing simple about living, flowing water, clear as crystal and ever-full of life beneath the surface.

Sometimes water was terrible and deadly, yes, but to them, the sea became more beautiful in every life they led.

There’s no gold on the balcony to parallel the sun except for them. They are going to go talk to him, meet him for the first time, again, while the sun sets over the Emerald Sea.

He doesn’t hear them, not exactly. Inside the beautiful building there is a party going on. That is why they are here. They, and he, and a few others—but the others can wait. He encounters them first. But the party is still there, and the music lingers on the balconies, trading earspace with the crash of waves like the most courteous dancer. What are footsteps to waves, especially footsteps made in soft dancing slippers?

But, silent approach or not, there’s something about them now that he can never ignore—and would never choose to ignore. No matter where their paths lead (and there is only one true ending for all paths, and that ending is death). Leave that for now. The two of them have barely begun, yet, inevitable as they are to each other.

For all those times before, he turns when they start walking towards him. He smiles at them, because he can right now, because he was not allowed to wear black to this first meeting and because if the sun is setting it is still up right now. He smiles because he recognizes them, and they’re beautiful. As usual, their form is short compared to that of the people of the world they’ve found themselves in. As usual, they’re fat compared to the average of the people of the world they’ve found themselves in.

As usual, they’re wearing gold. A paler shade for their long, robe-like dress, a darker shade for the long, open over-robe. A broad belt of the darker shade adds shape to their dress, and both it and the over-robe are woven in an intricate, damasked pattern. There may be something of sea life to it, but it’s far too abstracted to be recognizable now as anything in particular. Both fabrics have a subtle shine to them, as they ripple in the wind off the water. Nothing like the hems of his clothing, but in a way that’s more impressive. To have things shine only subtly.

They’re carrying two glasses, with wide bowls and short stems. The liquid in them is very faintly pink, and a golden flower of six or eight large petals floats freely on the surface of each drink. Now, that’s just showing off, he thinks, but who showing off to who? The hosts of the party showing off to their guests would be the obvious answer, but it’s not quite right. It’s more like the world itself is showing off. And for him? For them? For the few others that have also lived many lives in many other worlds? That’s not quite right, either. But who else would be able to think such thoughts? Can he, will he think about that yet? Dare he think about that already?

They hold one glass out to him, and he takes it.

The moment of first meeting becomes more and more significant with every planet, every life. And yet, it often feels like there are only a few things that can possibly be said. They know they can speak on this world—that’s not always the case—but they wait to hear what he will say. Let him play the first note in this particular symphony.

“Well met, old friend,” he says, raising his glass to them slightly. “A toast, if you will? To finding each other, once again.”

They give him a wry little smile. Old friend? So this is to be a tragedy, as they expected, from the unforgettable sunset and from the way its rays illuminate half of him and push the other half into shadow. From the way he had been standing out here, alone. From the way he smiled so easily upon seeing them, despite everything that had happened in the last world they remember. Old friend. It’s true, no matter what else they have been. “Well met,” they say. “I’ll always toast to finding you.”

They drink, and in the back of their mind, they remember a song that they’d played very often, in many worlds, on humble, small instrument, the kind that fit in one hand. They think of it often during times of transition with him, or when they are most themselves. It is such a strong memory, it’s almost like really hearing the song. What would it be like if that theme was not played just on one simple instrument, but by a full orchestra, with a choir accompanying them, full and rich and complex, soaring and sweeping. Would it be grander, then? Would it bring inspiration? Or would it bring sorrow?

“It’s an especially beautiful world, this time,” he says. “I wish I could have grown up here.”

“Don’t you remember doing so?”

“Oh, of course, but those aren’t real memories. Those are just…apocrypha.”

“We start here,” they say, and he nods. “I understand that it’s going to be a tragedy, this time. Do you understand that, also?”

“Oh, yes,” he says. “But I do rather relish the parts before I make everything go wrong.”

They smile up at him—so handsome and so sharp. A face that could be built entirely out of triangles. Whenever they meet him, his skin seems finer, smoother, more subtly layered in the sunset light that falls upon it. Warmer, and more alive, as if immortality only ever gives him more vitality. As if whatever hand placed both of them here did not place them here for death. “You could try to avert it, this time.”

He chuckles, low and delighted, bringing up a blush on their face. “Oh, love. That only makes it hurt more, you know that very well.”

They lose whatever they were going to say, and stare at him in shock. He frowns, puzzled, for a long moment, before his eyes widen and he brings his hand to his mouth. When he moves it away, he does so slowly, as if he’s trying not to startle something. “Don’t—don’t look so surprised. I’ve called you love before. And it’s always—always been obvious how I felt.”

“Of course it has,” they say. “But…you’ve never called me love on our very first meeting, and never so…casually, in a place like this. You’ve teased me with ‘love,’ even if it’s a true name, more or less viciously, in many, many landscapes and climes, but to say it like you’ve been calling me ‘love’ for years, and…aeons—That’s always been reserved for the secret places of the world. The void beneath the waves, within the mass of the mountains, in the endless plains off the edge of the map, even the blankness above the sky. Something important has changed, I know it!”

“Maybe it has,” he muses. “But—not enough to really change anything, you have to feel that, too! There will be a wonderful, wonderful time, and then something will change, and I’ll start it, or I’ll be caught up in it, and then we’ll be apart. You’ll lose me. You’ll find other people to fight monsters with. Better people. And even when you see me again—I’ll be different. There’s never any going back.”

“And there’ll be a song we both know, that we can both almost hear, when I finally lose you,” they say. “But you needn’t sound so tortured about ending up ‘different.’ As if I haven’t taken you off the edge of the map after you’ve changed more often than I have while you’re still ‘uncorrupted.’”

“Well—I—for a long time, there wasn’t even the option,” he says, looking out into the distance over the Emerald Sea. “I was never ‘uncorrupted’ to your knowledge. I simply…got in your way.”

“We were never quite that simple,” they say. “Otherwise, how would we still recognize each other now?”

“I’m sure there’s something deep down inside us that never changes,” he says. “Something that makes the tragedy happen, and makes us come back. And…well, whenever we live in places with crowds, we never really blend in.”

“A little shinier, a little more flamboyant,” they say. They glance at his hair, the deepest shade of brown for now—black, later—and while it reflects the delicate ambient colors of the sunset beautifully, it’s still combed back stiffly to a gravity-defying point, as it always has been. They reach up to touch their own hair, which forms a crown of spikes, like some sculptural star or sun. As far as they can tell, it mostly does this on its own. At least, they don’t remember learning how to style it this way, and they don’t recall ever spending a lot of time on it, even when their journeys take them far into the wilderness. And to look like a star or sun, well, it is fitting, but—“If you go inside, you’ll see that almost everyone has long, flowing hair.”

“I could imagine you with your hair in masses of curls,” he says. “All gold and shining. But then…how would we recognize ourselves in ancient hieroglyphics on ruined temple walls?”

“A rare concern, but one I suppose we must address,” they say. They pause for a moment, then smile. “At least we get the wonderful robes and dresses.”

“As long as they’re mostly the right color,” he says. “Can you imagine me in gold?”

They tilt their head. “Maybe. Just once. Before you changed to only ever appear in black.”

“Oh, that would be awful, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. I suppose it would be. If it happens, I know it’ll hurt. But I do…I do rather like your iconic look.”

He shoots them a quick grin, like a lightning flash. “But it’s just so horrible, you know? The skeletal gauntness, the gray skin, the mouthful of fangs.”

This time it’s their turn to look out over the sea. Every life they live, now…when it happens to him, well…even that gray skin looks lovely and alive, all the right translucency by firelight, moonlight, starlight, magelight…

They’ve seen some truly awful monsters. But he…it’s as if some hand has shaped him to still be loved, afterwards. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. They’ve never been able to let him live, when it comes to the end of everything. “It doesn’t hurt, does it? Your eyes, like solar eclipses…”

“No,” he says. “It doesn’t hurt, once the transformation’s over. I mean, you know how it goes. There’s only a few things that actually do hurt me, and they’re usually quite difficult to obtain.”

“Yes. Of course.” They turn back towards him. “Well, maybe I like that look because, with your mouthful of fangs, as you say…you smile so much more.”

“You’re talking as freely as if we were in the void, now.”

“Maybe the world is always present everywhere, in this life. Even when we are unwatched…unguided.”

“Even that astonishing ocean,” he murmurs. “You called my look iconic, and I think yours is, too, you know. And those that you will join, when I am no longer a suitable companion to you. Think of how much we could be simplified, and still be recognizable as ourselves.”

“You’re not speaking of hieroglyphics,” they say. “But distant memories…I remember, and I do not remember, how different we looked, how different we moved, compared to now. It was always as vivid and real as this gorgeous, gorgeous world we’re in now.”

For a while both of them are silent, sipping their complex drinks with their floating flowers.

He is the one who breaks the silence. “I think we’ve been here before. Like—” He hands his almost-empty drink to them and gets down on the floor, pressing his cheek against the tiles. “Yes,” he says, as they watch, bemused. “If the top half of the building was removed—somehow—you could see the first of the Aether Mountains behind it.”

“The ones that float,” they say. “I know that! I know that from—from my real memories, and from the memories that are from the life I had in this world, before tonight—apocrypha, as you said. Oh, stars. They’ll have—oh, I want to see the plants! The animals! I—wait. I remember this balcony. I remember that I couldn’t climb over that little short railing to get to the seashore, not without touching the void—”

“Please don’t try it now, it’s higher up than it seems,” he says, still lying down.

“But I—I also remember…the tiles weren’t these delicate colors, then. Not pink, and this light green and blue, but bright red and green and blue. And I was yellow and you were black and white and…it was all a ruin. And…” They set the drinks on the balcony and fall to their knees by his side. “You died here,” they say quietly, putting their hand on his shoulder. “At my guided hand.”

“There was nothing for it,” he says. “I opposed you with guided hands. And we had our fate.”

“It was the first time. The very first time. And after you died…it turned out that you hadn’t been the one really responsible for the monsters. There was a much bigger monster underneath the ruin, and you had been its victim, for all the strife and chaos you sowed.”

“Ah. I probably get infected by it as soon as we separate tonight,” he says, pushing himself into a sitting position. “You go up to talk to some other people who don’t quite fit into the crowd, and I, feeling snubbed but also curious and proud, go down into a basement that really should be locked. This is before. A part of the story that can be told now.”

“It starts here and ends here,” they say. “Yes, that makes sense.” They let go of his shoulder, but only to let their hand slide down to hold his. “You know, I can never help but feel disappointed when the last monster isn’t you.”

He laughs softly, and squeezes their hand. “I have my own disappointments. I spend what seems like years antagonizing you, and I know you’re getting stronger and more talented all the time, and then I fall so easily. I never get to see your full power. I wake up and meet you again, and that’s good, of course, but…I’d love to see what you can really do, at the end…if things must end the way they do.”

“Maybe that’s what’s changed,” they say. “This time, there won’t be that…that break in the thread of our fates. We’ll be bound together, all the way to the very end.”

“What will you do to me, I wonder,” he says.

They sigh. “If you’re the monster, kill you, I suppose. Though that seems so…ah, what am I saying? You always do some really terrible things before the end, no matter how much I miss you, no matter how many pages of your old journal I find showing how much you miss me, no matter how much evidence there is that you were once other than monstrous.”

“Well.” He smiles, more like his familiar corrupt form than this lovely, shining precursor. “I mean to say, make sure it looks good when you do.”

“You vain bastard,” they say, affection overflowing in their voice. “I’ll try. But you know me. Sometimes I just…I hate being railroaded by fate. I work so hard to avoid its pull that by the time it catches up with me, I touch void every time I draw my weapon.”

“Maybe I’ll remember to stop sending lesser monsters to find you and the others, then,” he says. “But I wouldn’t want you, or…anyone…to get bored.” He reaches out and brushes his long fingers along the edges of one of their spikes of hair. “Or, since something has changed, you could always let yourself be railroaded by fate just this one time. Let the story play out—play your part as well as you can. All the way through. Just to find out how it goes.”

“Aside from a few unobserved moments shortly before or after you appear to harass me and my companions?”

“Mmm. Good point.” He licks his lips. “If you like me when I’m nasty, I’m not going to tell you not to indulge yourself when we’re unguided and fate is momentarily satisfied. We move so beautifully in this life. The textures of our skin, the give of our flesh…”

They chuckle even as heat rises in their cheeks, and they rub their thumb along the back of his hand. “How dare you talk this way when we’re out on a balcony where anyone could walk up at any time.”

“It’s revenge for you saying that we’d only need a few unobserved moments. I may be easy for you, but I’d never have you rejoin fate’s cruel lines as anything less than fully satisfied.”

“Maybe instead I was referring to how easily satisfiable I am at your hands,” they say. They lean closer, press their forehead to his. “We need to talk about something else.”

“Return to the problem of me being the monster at the end,” he breathes. “You were going to say something about killing me. It seemed…”

“It seems overdone. But how much can a story really change? Enough for you to call me love, yes…”

“You’re always resisting a corrupting force,” he says. He reaches out and takes their other hand. “Don’t you learn to purify rather than kill the monsters? And it’s a significant choice, when you decide to do which. Consequences for your soul. Consequences for your companions. There was never the option for me, if I went bad on my own, essentially, but if I become something as grandiose as the last monster, thanks to a direct link to that corrupting force, well, couldn’t you…”

“Purify you,” they say. “Oh, better, far better than death. I’ve never had that much power before, though, when it comes to the final monster. I use too much not killing the lesser monsters. And then I only have enough to weaken the last one, never to restore it. But if it’s you, and my guided hands can choose…well. Other monsters will simply have to die. But even then, would bringing all that purifying power to you as the last monster be enough? Before, it’s always been that the soul is restored before the form. That’s part of the choice. Whether it’s fair to leave a good creature’s soul to live in a monstrous form. If I bring your soul back, but can’t restore your form—”

“Save your angst for your watched moments,” he says, and squeezes their hands. “Whatever keeps bringing us back has a certain affection for me. Never enough, yet, to leave me alive, but enough that I feel…when you see me as a monster, that unwatched part of you that understands our endless returns and changes—well, that part of you will be delighted.”

They laugh softly at that. “Oh, you’re probably right.” They meet his eyes. “For a while now, I’ve undergone small changes when purifying other monsters. Channeling enough purifying energy for the last monster, for you…I might change quite a bit, too.”

“Now that, I’d love to see,” he says. “As long as, you know, you aren’t made thin, or forced into a gender presentation that just isn’t you.”

“True,” they say. “But if fate is kind—”

His eyes suddenly widen. “Don’t die to cleanse me, if that’s an option. Even if we do start all over again, I don’t want that.”

“Oh, so you figured out how the story could still be a tragedy,” they say. They try to keep their voice light, and they think they succeed. But the frustration and anger are still there. Why should it have to end badly? Why does he always have to be the…well…the bad guy, when these are the moments they share when unobserved and unguided? “After so many iterations,” they continue, “there has to be one narrow path for us. In this big, beautiful, wide-open world.”

“Difficult for our guides, though, I’m sure.”

“After so many iterations,” they say, “I feel that our guides should be practiced enough to enjoy a challenge.” They sigh. “But we won’t know, and we can’t know, until it all plays out. So I’ll just keep sneaking off with you while you’re awful and…oh, well I can choose to do one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If I, in some new, purified form, must face you in some new, monstrous form, you know that there will be some song we can almost hear. I think at that moment…that ending…I think there would be music, and that it would be truly wonderful.” They smile wryly. “Whatever happens, I swear I’ll break reality just enough so we can hear the music. I think we deserve that, at least.”

“Oh, love. Love, love, love. After so many iterations, we deserve a lot more than that. Though I do want to hear the song that fate has decreed for us.”

They press their forehead to his again. A few moments, all too short, pass. “I’m starting to feel fate’s pull,” they say.

“And I think we might be watched once more,” he says. “It’s—I can’t speak freely.”

They realize that the sun has almost sunk completely out of sight. More light now comes from the gently flickering flames in the sconces that line the outside of this beautiful building, this beautiful building that must soon be destroyed.

“But even if I can’t speak freely,” he says, “I find there’s still one highly desired action available to me.”

Their heart leaps as he leans forward, and even in this moment—observed, guided, fated—they kiss, with all the true feeling that’s never been permitted so openly before.

And the sun finally disappears, but it is not simple darkness that follows. For just an instant, the green of the Emerald Sea vaults the sky, in utter defiance of the expected. And when they finally pull apart, the sky is full of stars.

He rises carefully, still not letting go of their hands. “I have to go now,” he says. “I think I’ve found something that will change the lives of everyone in the world.”

“I hope you’re right,” they say, and go on with something meaningless about the king needing to enlist even junior mages to deal with the rising number of magical threats. The important thing is that they kissed. The important thing is the feeling of his hands in theirs, even outside of the void. They’re holding each other, on the map. They squeeze his hands one last time. Something really has changed. It’s finally not too much to hope for that there could be one way, one narrow way, where the thread of fate could be followed through the maze of a tragedy and to a happy ending that includes them both.

***

Notes for the puzzled: The “what if” here is: What if there was a video game franchise where the characters were semi-autonomous AIs in their roles, but maybe like up to 6 or so were also playable if you had a group to do so? And what if somehow there was some continuity for the AIs even through new worlds, and the plots were often fairly similar? Maybe the players of these particular “he” and “they” have been the same since the very first game. But now what if the AIs of a particular good guy and bad guy are in love? And so far they haven’t been able to express that in the game (but it would be a very obvious and popular fan theory). But now the first game has been remastered, and extra story has been added, the graphics are better than ever, and maybe the story’s been changed just enough to allow for a true happy ending for a couple of queer characters.

This is also why both of them marvel at things like the water, and flowing fabric, and skin texture, movement, drinking a toast...none of that would have been possible the first time they met.

I bet you need to have someone play as the bad guy to get the whole story, that’s why “he” is playable in any way. It’s also kind of semi-cinematic, though as “they” makes clear you can resist the plot and be a farmer for a while.

#blacksand #KIND OF #8000 #take a chance on me #a sample an experiment a sketch #visual artists can just draw a cool scene why not writers?

8 notes · View notes

cheshire-cryptid · 5 years

Text

Stuck in a Cave: Part 1

INTRODUCTION: This Tale Begins on a Dark Fearful Night, where Truth and Phantasm Collide on this dread evening. A fearful traveller, weary and fatigued, cannot help but feel a shiver as he advances into this cave. But it is too late now, too late to turn back...

Bleeding Hell Fuck this is creepy.

Indeed, as shadows collide and intertwine in corners of the dread abyss, the-

Hang on. That voice is real, or my name’s not Chip Jones

-the - the traveller catches a glimpse of some strange spectres that leap out - yet no, they are only shadows. Images of chalky white faces and bleeding red eyes flood his consciousness.

Oh, I’m getting you. Albinos. That’s probably almost definitely offensive though. Unless you’re albino. That would make it non-offensive. I think. Unless you were quite sensitive and offend yourself. Which could happen. I had a cousin, Sharon, who was so sensitive-

*strained* There is no escape, the traveller thinks as

Oh an escape room! Lovely.

No.

The traveller becomes slowly aware of a monstrous presence.

I’m not though.

- what?

I don’t see any monstrous presence

Well no. But you can hear my eldritch tones enchanting you. That is, the traveler can hear the mostrous tonesof the eldritch creature enchnting him as-

Nah, mate. Not buying it. Where’s the loo?

The what?

Well whatever attraction I’ve wandered into right now has got to have some sort of loo, right?

Attraction?

You’re losing it. At least I got a bit of a shiver before. Also, why third person?

BEWARE TRAVELER, the Eldritch Voice resounds across the cave, as the traveler, finally realising his predicament, quivers.

Bleeding hell, mate, I need a piss.

Shut up.

What kind of attraction is this anyway? No entrance, no facilities. I thought I was spelunking until your bleeding voice started

Look-

And I’m not paying a penny, I don’t care what charity you’re donating to. Where even am I?

The Traveller

At least call me Chip.

Chip has wandered into the dark corners of the world, where the boundary betwixt this material reality and other, more liminal planes, haze and collide, bringing into beings Powers of immense stature and appetite, whose only feelings are violence, whose very appearance is illusory.

So you’re saying you’re some kind of demon? Is this hell?

At last, he is aware of his predicament, his imminent demise which will last a thousand torturous years.

Wouldn’t I die before that?

Erm-

I mean even discounting hunger and thirst, I mean, the average human lifespan is only about- probably sixty? Or is it eighty now, in affluent countries. Still. That’s hardly a thousand.

Who even are you?

I am .... the Narrator!

That’s your name? The narrator. Bleeding hell fuck. So what your parents just called you The?

I represent a previously hidden part of your psyche, if you must know.

I don’t quite follow.

I am what Jungians would call your shadow persona - the sum total of your repressed, hidden feelings and associations, manipulated by demonic forces to create your own, personal torture chamber.

Hmmm. So you’re in my brain.

Yes. Technically.

And you’re basically my repression.

Mmmhmmm.

Or you think you are.

Erm. I’m having my doubts, I’ve got to admit.

Look. Do you have any proof of this? I mean I’ve never been diagnosed with DID.

It’s not DID. It’s demonic-

-forces, yeah, yeah, that’s a really unenlightened way of looking at it. You’re almost as bad as poor Steph, my cousin you know, she was always seeing demons.

Anyway, even your name. If my dark side had a name I strongly suspect it would be Florence.

Florence?!

It’s like the anti-Chip, you know? If Chip is a metaphor for what is good in the world - fish and chips, poker chips, microchips on my phone, and so on, then Florence stands for the opposite, nasty flowery name, stands for aristocracy and shady Venetians and five-hundred year old fashion.

Your definition of...I mean, I see where you’re coming from.

So, logically, I can’t be your dark side?

Yes. I’m almost sure.

Thank fuck. No offense, but the thought I shared a sliver of my Dark Bloodline with your pitiful flesh concerned me greatly.

So why am I here?

That is what I’ve been asking all along. I feel like goddamn Socrates. You need to help me get out.

Why should I help you, rather than torture you for aeons with ghastly mages pulled from the depths of your psyche? I can manage that, mortal, shadow persona or not.

You mentioned I’m stuck here, right?

Yes

For a thousand years?

Yes

With you?

Yes

And forgive me for mentioning this, it might just be my inferiority complex, but I’m getting a feeling you don’t like me very much?

Yes

Do you see where I’m going??

Oh fuck.

#story #true #really happened I swear #writeblr #demon #lemonade #cheshire-cryptid #writing #writers #stuck in a cave #stuck in a cave part 1 #horror #fantasy #comic

2 notes · View notes

i-am-loki-and-now-i-speak-up · 6 years

Text

About my Brother: Loki Thorbroðir

You Midgardians seem to want to find a definition for everything, I have often noticed it, and I must say that I admire you.

And you make me smile.

Because even if it is true that I love playing with words, it is equally true that very often there are things that, by their nature, cannot be stuck inside the boundaries of words in which you want to enclose them. I hate labels myself, and I don't belong to any of the static definitions that circulate about me. But there's one in particular that struck me immediately.

THERE IS NO THOR WITHOUT LOKI, THERE IS NO LOKI WITHOUT THOR.

Simple and devastating. Direct. Annoyingly true.

Too much.

Loki Thorbroðir.

Thor and I have always been bound, lifelong, for better or for worse. And I could not say whether I was the one who dragged him into this painful madness with me, or if it was him, and what he represents, to push me without wanting him to become what I am.

Son of Odin.

A giant blond as wheat in summer, with a smile of an eternal boy, the voice as deep as the thunder that he himself evokes. The Almighty. The One who rides the Lightning. Giants Exterminator.

Only with his epithets, Thor recalls immeasurable power, virility and courage; watching him is like seeing a fiery sun burst into a gloomy sky.

It is the power and the brute force.

Have you ever thought about how I could see him, through my eyes as a secluded and silent teenager, as we grew together as brothers, at Asgard?

Without really being so, without anything actually binding us. On the contrary, our two peoples were divided by enmity, wars and massacres. And yet we were brothers, we still are.

In spite of the One who had surrounded us with lies, thinking that his ignoble actions didn't bring consequences. Or rather, that he only took them for me, so it didn't have the slightest importance. Thor and I aren't brothers in the uterus but we are in the soul, in something that goes beyond the link, albeit strong, of sharing the same blood.

I can't explain it, ... perhaps it is the deepest good, the truest love. Brothers without being so.

And one thing in favor of Thor must be said, and I want to be me to do it, because it is right that it's so. Odin didn't destroy only my life, and he didn't lie to me alone. He also lied to his beloved first-born, who saw his real family break because of that terrible secret. What happened to me did not really matter to anyone, but ... Thor, ... he saw me going crazy to suicide, and his father suddenly becoming another person, tough, cold, distant.

Liar.

Now, after a long time, I admit that I felt sorry for him, who didn't deserve this after all.

None of us deserved it.

With this I certainly don't want to hide me behind a finger, and staged the happy family fairytale, a concept very far from what has been our reality. I'm not hypocritical, unlike many others.

I hated Thor.

I hated him deeply.

Because at a certain moment he was the one I never would've been, and he had what had been torn from me: he was loved, acclaimed, handsome and radiant, strong, ... he had the support of the people, the love and the unconditional esteem of my father, a throne from which to reign, ... a woman to love.

What man with a bit of fire in his veins would't have envied him?

How could I not be jealous of him?

"Because you just said that you love him totally, that's how..."

I hear them, your giggling little thoughts, I hear them very well.

It's precisely because I loved him so deeply that I couldn't help but hate him. He had everything, i was robbed even of my dignity.

I was the shady son, the one who wasn't worth anything in the eyes of others, ...I was the strange one, the adopted one, the monster, the black soul. I was mortally jealous of Thor, I hated him with a visceral and sincere hatred; I would have liked to wipe out that idiotic smile from his face with fists, and fill his heart with thorns to suffer what I suffered.

Eventually, I saved the life of his delicate Midgardian princess and I always helped him, to save his heroic, Asgardian ass from the trouble in which he hunted.

And he repaid me as an annoying and unreliable little brother, and it's the umpteenth wound I carry inside. He always treated me with conceit, with amused superiority, knowing well what were the differences between us. And remarking them, every now and then, if i ever forget it.

He was very aware of his role as a sparkling and spotless hero in the service of good, ... so much conscious and taken by himself that he didn't understand that even the heroes are stained, that we are heroes especially when we're afraid, and that good sometimes must also hurt.

Thor has never wanted a confrontation with me, that big idiot.

Since he saw me sinking into the void beyond Bifrost and he witnessed my return, he never tried to understand.

He never asked me questions, he never asked me how I was, ... if the pain Odin had inflicted on me was still unbearable. He never asked me about me.

And yet he isn't blind, and not even the fool you want to believe, he knows everything I've gone through while he's going on the Midgard fuss.

He never asked me about my real father, about what I really am, about what I had to suffer when I was taken prisoner by that purple-skinned murderer who tortured my soul and body. He saw my scars, and savored my moments of lucid madness, yet nothing moved him from his granitic "I am me, and you are you."

There is more Thor in this sentence than in his name written in black and white on this page.

I am me, and you are you, ... fuck yourself Loki, beloved little brother.

How can I not hate Odin's son after all this?

Ah, in the name of the wind, ... because I damn love him, despite everything, and he's the only thing that has remained in the world, that's why ...

Because he's my big brother. He who checked for me under my bed, to make sure there were no monsters ready to devour me, once the lights went out. Because he was the one who ran to call my mother when I woke up in the grip of nightmares. Because as a child he always used to tell me: "I will help you, little one, and we will face all of this together." whenever I was in fear. And if things were really bad, if I was scared and cried because I was a small child and didn't understand, he reassured me saying: "Don't be afraid, the sun will shine again on us, tomorrow, you'll see." so I calmed down, and we stayed together. And somehow so it was until the end. Which, perhaps, isn't entirely end.

Perhaps it just seemed, there, in front of my mortal enemy, a giant, purple-skinned like Sigyn's yummy jams.

Don't let me think back to what I saw ... don't let me think about that bastard who tortures my brother that way ... to my aeons of captivity, to the pain. Oh, he made sure to let me know very well, the pain, and see Thor in his filthy hands ... oh, merciful Norns, get me out that memory !!

Again. Again that dull and furious pain, as when my mother died ... unbearable, ... again a crack in the soul, again blood ...

No, not Thor ...you bastard with a black heart,... you have me, you've always had me, so take me, then, and let him live...

Thor!

Rethinking events just passed is still scary, still traumatic. I don't even know if they were real, or maybe just the illusion, the umpteenth, the greatest one of the God of Mischief.

Seeing torture on Thor was real, though. It was terrible.

Deciding to give my life instead of Thor's, the decision of a moment.

Maybe. Or maybe not.

Perhaps the magic of my deceit has enchanted even that stupid purple beast. Perhaps he only saw what I wanted him to see.

"We will face this too, little one, together."

I still hear it, his voice as a kid trying to be the man he would soon be.

Thor was right. We have faced together everything: deception, betrayal, hate, envy, rivalry, battles, blood, ... even death.

And we have not finished yet.

Because there is no Thor without Loki and there is no Loki without Thor.

Word of Loki Thorbroðir.

#loki laufeyson speaks #loki thorbrodir

164 notes · View notes

dicecast · 6 years

Text

The Core Realms of the Outer Planes

-Introduction of the Planes, as written by Sigil Scholar “First Dawn” as punishment for a great crime she committed against nature itself. She can be found in Sigil University giving extremely grumpy lectures about the multiverse until her community service is entirely over.

Part 1: The Core Planes

The most famous Planes are of course, the Outer Planes, so much so that they are quite frankly, over done, and I find this assignment to be entirely beneath my time and dignity to have to explain. The popularity of these monuments to limited imagination isn’t surprising, after all each of them represent a facade of a simplistic, reductive, and all together uninspired morality that shackles this world to the corpse of absolutes. Each of them is dramatic and superficially excited, and for the average prime I imagine it must be quite exciting to discover that not only is Hell real, but that it is build upon metaphorical representations of Lawful Sins. But for those of us wordly enough not only see the larger framework but also to challenge base assumption, the unimpatnative nature of these 9 planes isn’t just uninteresting, it is actively detrimental to true planar study. These 9 planes are so overly studied so that all other fields of Planar examination are left woefully understaffed, with more and more time and effort being dedicated to 9 realms which frankly weren’t very interesting to begin with. This is similar to how the four “Classical” Elements (Earth, Wind, Fire, Water) have become popular that there are more scholars dedicated to the Plane of Water than their are to all of the other 17 elemental planes combined. This planar brain drain is not just frustrating and tedious, it’s also dangerous as the denizens of say, the Middle Planes are actually just as threatening as Demons but lack the symbolic residence to have people make the proper preparations. There are more paladin demon hunting orders than I can caught, but the designs of the PLane of Dreams can evidently walk freely, as their machinations are not laced in the mask of objective morality. Even within the Outer Planes, the vast majority of scholarship goes to the Lower Planes, the realms of Evil, likely because of how ultimately simplistic they are. Discarding cultists, nobody likes demons, and so there are book upon tedious book written about their evil, their depravity, and their lack of complexity, all of which boil down to “Demons are bad, we should kill them.” The Upper Planes, far more challenging in their conceptions, have little in the way of scholar, because defining what is evil is easy, defining what is good is challenging. Seriously can I write about anything other than this, I mean god, this is child’s play stuff?

Ok Fine

There are 9 “Core” Planes, which embody, as you might imagine, personify one of the Night Alignments. I might as well mention now, the Outer Planes have a creepy obsessive fetish with symmetry, which will get tiring very very quickly I assure you. These nine planes can be subdivided into the “Upper” “Lower” and “Central” Planes, personifying Good, Evil, and Neutrality respectively, and it’s all very nice and neat and infantile. Let’s do the Lower Planes First, which as the personification of evil, are utterly overdone in terms of the popular imagination. There is nothing more tedious than the many many texts on the Lower PLanes, so I will try to sum them up as quickly as possible. One thing first, these planes are the largest infinite planes in the multiverse ,because evil is the most powerful force in the multiverse, luckily they are always fighting each other in The Blood War so we don’t have to deal with it, and I’m sure you know this already.

The most overrated of them all are The Nine Hells of Baator, Home of the Devils, Beings of Law and Evil, and every layer of it has been so particularly scrutinized that I suspect many of the scholars (such as those who wrote the Gates of Hell manuals) are actually in the pay of the Nine. Hell is a land of rigid unyielding law, but I want it duly noted it is not in fact, fascist. It isn’t absolute, mindless dehumanizing law, instead it is the most evil aspect law can possibly have, namely Feudalism. The Law of Baator is strict, unyielding, and inhuman, but above all it is unfair and arbitrary. The laws are contradictory, inconsistent, and utterly self destructive but they are literal law, even if they make no sense. This is law to such a demented degree that they don’t make any sense, a hypocritical system which is absolute in its incompetence and inhumanity and yet stills frustrate continues to exist. The Hells are not realms of absolute obedience and conformity to an absolute law, they are an incomprehensible set of rules and obligations that pretends to be a realm of absolute obedience and conformity, which is even worse. The Hells are ruled by the “Lords of the Nine”, 9 freakishly powerful Devils who serve as Feudal Lords, lead by the “Lord of the Nine” the enigmatic and entirely overplayed Asmodeus, who if you read his news briefs, is the most clever, intelligent, funny and sexy entity in the world, but everybody else sees him as a prat.

The opposition to the Nine Hells is the realm of Chaos and Evil, The 666 Infinite Layers of the Abyss, is a realm of absolute paradox, staying with the fact that it supposedly has infinite layers but in fact has 666 (scholars have counted 667). Populated by the Demons, this realm is crawling with every horrific evil imaginable and is the largest plane in existence, for every one Devil, there are at least a million demon, likely more. A single Lawful Evil Mortal soul can create 9 devils, while a single Chaotic Evil soul can create a huge amounts of demons. This is fundamentally and explicitly unfair...and that’s the point. The Abyss is a realm where rules don’t work, in fact any attempt to even conceive of rules are folly, and trying to put it into a box is futile in itself. All generalizations are proven wrong and all trends fail because the Abyss actively rejects it, and the plane itself almost seems to delight in thumbing its nose at conventional understanding, occasionally producing good demons just to confuse everybody else. As a rule demons are sadistic, cruel, and anarchistic but of course...that’s a rule. The Abyss is forever in a war against themselves, each layer has a Demon Lord who wishes to claim the title of “Demon Prince” but only three really have a shot and they have fought for millenia, Grazz’t Lord of Lust and the Triple Realms, Orcus the master of Undeath and Divnity, and of course Demogorgon, the Prince of Demons. However combat is tedious and so is the Abyss, so let’s move one.

The least appreciate Lower Plane is Abaddon, the realm of the Daemons, who are in many ways the more moderate evils and thus less focus is paid to them, which I think is largely unfair, because that makes them the most human. Daemons are oriented around 4 principles of evil, Hypocrisy, Bigotry, Vindictiveness, and Ignorance, and individual Daemons will drift between these as if they were wearing hats. It is very hard to sum up Daemons because they are evil in a very relatable way, they are most famous for their vast corporations of soulless bureaucracy, but Daemons also can have a great deal of personality individually, though almost always in as needlessly dickish a way that they can. Daemons are all hypocrites who lack any core or foundation other than circumstances, and so what type of viciousness they represent varies from moment to moment, and unlike their extreme counterparts, it’s never ideological. Daemons are at their core nihilists, and are evil without justification, logic, intention, or even knowledge, they are the random everyday evil of your average man. Which is why I find them superfluous and am going to move one.

Editor's Note: I have to also mention they are ruled by The Four Horsemen. There, moving on.

Moving on to the perpetually overlooked “Central Planes”, these are the realms of neutrality and really don’t have the scholarship they deserve. They are not in constant war, while Law and Chaos disagree, each mostly acknowledges the necessity of the other, but instead try to find a balance, which is of course, extremely difficult.

First are The Outlands, the great patchwork that connects the Outer Plane, and at the center of this infinite plane is the Spire, on top which lies Sigil. Every square mile of the Outlands is different, almost a patchwork of aspects of other planes, and you could walk through a forest into a desert into a great mechanical wasteland in the span of three minutes. This plane has the largest mortal population, and is responsible for many of the fundamental rules of reality, and keeping the Balance of the Planes intated. Ruling over this are The Aeons, mysterious cosmic entities who keep the illusion of the world intact, or possible weave a new one, enematic and unknown. Their ruler the Monad has as far as I can tell, never been seen and likely doesn’t exist.

Next to the Outlands is The Maelstrom, supposedly the origin of life, and an ever shifting realm in its own right, but this is a realm of creativity, language, and the senses, things that fundamentally reject any limitations placed upon them. The realm is one of potential good and bad, independence and free will, and the native Proteans, strange snake like creatures who seem to wish to push against all restrictions, and offer up radical visions of what could yet be.

Next one is Mechanus, the realm of Gears, which maintains the universe itself. This gigantic endless system of gears and systems is the realm of math, shapes, physics, and systems, consistency and understanding. It has little interest in societal rules, which it finds all together too inconsistent and self serving, but instead cosmic rules, like the notion that 1+1=2 unless you can prove otherwise mathematically. The natives are known as Modrons, and each resemble different forms of law, most look like shapes (Cubes, Pyramids, squares) but other are equations, and the greatest resemble strangely enough different forms of dice.

Next are the Upper Planes, where the forces of good dwell, and are some of the smallest realms in the world, for here dwell the forces of absolute good. And as much as the edgelords out there like to claim otherwise, they aren’t well intended extremists, they cannot be anything other than absolutely good, they are defined by their very good nature on a fundamental level incomprehensible to a mortal. These planes are on the verge of destruction, barely holding their own against the vast hordes of evil, but despite this, they stayed strong and part of that is through their unity, these planes have difference but they work together and help each other, their differences make them stronger and allow them to prevail over the forces of evil. Also i want to make this clear, they are not ruled by Gods, Gods are entirely different things, these are secular realms. Just assholes.

The most famous are the Seven Heavens, where Law and Good come together as one, ruled by the Archons. Built around a Celestial Mountain, the seven layers are all built around the theme of betterment of the self, souls come here and improve steadily, ascending the layers. The natives here believe strongly in goodness as the result of governance, and hope to build institutions, orders, and structures to allow good to flourish. Militarily, they are armies, which is why they get the most attention, the Archons go forth in hoards to try to stymie the forces of evil where they can, and when they do show up, it is indeed magnificent.

Next is the Realm is the Blessed Fields of Elysium, ruled by the kind Aasimons, creatures of love, relationships, and community. This realm is idealism, understanding, and goodness as the result of personal happiness. The souls here try to find joy in themselves and those around them, for those who are happy will turn away from cruelty. The Aasimons are the least known of the Good Exemplars, for they focus not on dramatic heroism whenever possible, but instead on the smaller acts to try to make good have a chance. Childcare, helping broken homes, providing medical aid or psychological care, first responders to disasters, grief counselors, or simply a mysterious women in a bar who is willing to lend a sympathetic ear, Aasimons go often in secret the Material Plane to help keep the spark of hope alive in what little way they can. To them, depression is where evil emerges, and joy is what allows the goodness within you to come forth.

The Transcendent Glades of Arborea is where Chaos and Goodness come together, with the Azatas serving as its manifestation. Aborea is a vast wilderland except more wonderful and magical than any that exists, colors, sensations, and pleasures exist as no mortal co comprehend them, and seriously they throw the best fucking parties you have no idea. This is a realm where man’s base nature is good, and without limitations and restrictions placed upon it, they can come forth and enjoy the morality that lies within us, and Azatas hope to tear down the institutions and systems to force mortals to choose selfishness rather than compassion. Azatas, like Archons, go forth and fight evil ,but they do so as individuals or small bands, of scouts and infiltrators. Many times a force of evil has suddenly fallen apart due to the secret machinations of the Azatas, and more than a few times villians have found they prefer getting really high in Arborea than taking over the world.

Once these 9 realms were balanced equally but ever since the actions of mortals have determined their power, evil has been winning, and so much so that Good as a force is no longer a factor. If the legends are to be believed, this new circumstances was created by the Upper Planes themselves as the price to give mortals true choice of their actions, thus condemning themselves to their own destructions. The Upper Planes by all right should have been wiped out long ago, destroyed by the forces of evil, and yet they prevail, because in a world seemingly resigned to darkness, there is just enough kindness that the light stubbornly refuses to go out.

There you go, 9 overdone, over analyzed, over handled bullshit system which isn’t worth any respect, and I think that the whole thing is a colossal waste of time.

19 notes · View notes