“Stranger danger.”, Author mumbled quietly, raising the book to hide behind it. He knew he could safe himself if he needed to, but… not if he was really going to be little. And he was dangerously close to it.
Tag: anon
He smiled softly. “Where’s your Mommy or Daddy, little one? I’m sure you are a big boy but your Caretaker should keep an eye on you.” He looked at the book- it was a simple picture book.
Author blushed at the words, looking down on his book shyly.
“Don’t.. don’t have one.”, he replied quietly. Living alone far out in the forest, and generally not liking people, he didn’t have anyone who cared.
He sat down in the other beanbag, tilting his head. His dark brown curls fell over his eyes. “What are you reading?”
“A book.”, Author replied, mumbling. He honestly wasn’t even sure. It had lots of pictures, and that was the most important thing for him, really.
“Hello, baby.” The taller man cooed. He had been walking around a bookshop when he had come across a man who was sitting in a beanbag and reading a little kid book. “Whatchu reading?” David was 31, and a full Big. He didn’t see the little’s Mommy or Daddy so he must be alone. /to author
Author had been so tired. He had been tired, and outside of his cabin instead of at home. And then the stress of the new deadline for his book coming up had crashed down on him, and bookstores always helped him calm down. He hadn’t even noticed he had grabbed a children’s book, cuddling into the beanbag to read in it. The people working here knew him well enough as well, so no one usually bothered him.
“Hm?”, he looked up when he was spoken to, the pet name tugging on his headspace. He wasn’t even really little yet, but he might as well fall into it.
Dog for the memory thing?
Send me a word and my muse will reveal a memory that has to do with it.
He yelped when he was tackled to the ground by a newfoundland dog, getting his face slobbered over. He couldn’t help but laugh though, having a big heart for animals. He loved them, and they loved him.
Once the dog finally released him, he wiped his face clean as best as he could, grinning. It was amazing to have animals that loved him like this, and he was very happy as he pet the dog, which borfed at him. He couldn’t help but chuckle at that, smiling.
Poison (for the word association thing)
Send me a word and my muse will reveal a memory that has to do with it.
His pupils are small, and his heart is beating out of his chest. Nothing makes sense anymore, and he feels like he can barely breath, every breath quick and shallow, trying to get more air but unable to. He feels sick, and he can’t stop the rise of bile in his throat. Doubling over, retching, and finally vomiting. His body trying to get rid of the poison it ingested, but unable to without help.
His head is throbbing, he’s drowsy, and wants nothing more than to collapse. He can’t feel the tips of his fingers, his tongue feels numb. His skin is clammy, his forehead is hot. He doesn’t know what to do, he his hands are shaking too much for him to be able to hold a pen even if he wanted to. He tried, but he dropped his pen, and he couldn’t see. Everything was blurry.
His throat felt like it was closing, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open even if he tried. He collapsed, gasping for breath. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t even hold a single thought. He felt like he was dying, and he probably was. He had no clue how he had been poisoned, but there he was. He just hoped someone would find him, because he couldn’t die just yet. He couldn’t. But he couldn’t even hold a pen anymore.
Memory ask: Storms
Send me a word and my muse will reveal a memory that has to do with it.
He had always loved storms. The rain coming down hard, splattering against the glass of the windows, a steady rhythm that filled the silence of the cabin. The crack of lightning, the growl of thunder.
He loved to make his characters run through storms. Some had met the end of their journey in them, electricity running through their bodies and leaving them with a stopped heart and beautiful burns across their bodies.
He himself would never go out in one. Not when he knew they were going to happen. He would rather sit next to a window, look outside. Usually, he wouldn’t be able to make anything out. There would be so much rain thundering against the glass, that it was the only thing he could see.
He’d close his eyes then, lean his head against the cool glass, and listen to the rain, until he eventually fell asleep.
flowers (for the word association thing :P)
Send me a word and my muse will reveal a memory that has to do with it.
He doesn’t come here a lot. Writing is his top priority after all, but sometimes, even he needs a break. When he can’t find the right words anymore, when he tries to write but everything just sounds wrong. It’s then that he leaves his cabin and walks through the forest.
There were never a lot of flowers there. He would always notice them, if they poked their heads out between the bushes, the grass. But there was one place he more than loved to go to.
It was a small clearing. The trees around dense, bushes high. It was always a trouble getting through them, and usually it left scratches on his bare skin. Not that he cared a lot about that, though.
The clearing was filled with flowers. Growing wildly, but in the most gorgeous colours, as if someone was looking after them. Besides him, no one ever came here, though.
He was always careful when he was here. Never wanting to destroy something so fragile like these flowers. He found little thin pathways through the flowers, small patches of grass. And he’d sit down there, or lay down, and just rest. Let the sun shine on his face, and let his mind wander.
Mun… Do you want to do a fall with me?
/ a what?
I forget. Do you rp with OCs, ever? Sorry, am on Mobile and dont know where to check for rules….
/ u can check the #rules or #blog rules !
/ i do roleplay with ocs! chances are i get bored of the roleplay quicker than with an ego, but i wont turn away an oc! as lons as they’re not op!
emptynarration 