#so spindly and stick thin

[dailypokemoncrochet]

FOTH Bramblin

#pokemon #crochet #amigurumi #pokemon crochet #bramblin #handmade #plush #toy #pokemon scarlet and violet #so spindly and stick thin #foth #fresh off the hook #that means i just finished this one!

[vanderilnde]

Unhinged battlefield surgeon reader and the extended metaphor of surgery as the most intimate form of love (with medical inaccuracies).

ghost/reader

-

Ghost got shot and his shredded kevlar had swallowed most of the shrapnel.

Though one bullet, thankfully, ate a way through and wedged itself in his abdomen.

He’s the only member of the task force you haven’t operated on. Always a little too tactically inclined and apt for your liking. Never with any grave injuries—just a ruddy bullet graze or a broken femur—neither of which you could get your hands on. 

Surgery was the only way he would ever notice you. When Soap was in post-op, gauzed and inebriated on painkillers, Ghost reverently nodded at you in thanks. When Gaz got shot and you coordinated a walking blood bank, gingerly asking Ghost if his blood type was a match. It wasn’t, but you already knew that, because his personnel file was a parsed-over sheet branded into your brain—but he leaned down, the fleece of his balaclava grazing the husk of your ear, and asked you to repeat your question. 

“Type one SGW,” someone says. A less-experienced medic, your subordinate, his first time downrange. Ashy and blanched in the face as he straps Ghost to a stretcher. “Signs of peritonitis are present.”

You’re already wearing your gloves, splitting a hand on Ghost’s chest. His breaths are irregular and short-winded under your palm, turbulent, like a second heartbeat.

You take a moment to grasp the papery flutter of his eyelashes against his mottled skin. It’s lace-like and scythe-like, disappearing under the crude shell of his macabre mask. And upon your excited fingers catching on the hem of his balaclava, the baby-faced medic stops you with a hand bent around your wrist.

“His face,” he slips an eighteen-gauge needle into Ghost’s bulging forearm. “That's not confidential?” 

Irritation threatens to supersede your anticipation. You shrug his hand off of you, snarling, “I need to BVM him. Would you rather he die?”

The medic’s eyes widen. He sputters out apologies, mousy, and shuffles back. Busies himself with something else within the babel of organised chaos and medevac. 

The pads of your fingers idle under the lip of Ghost’s balaclava. Slowly, you peel off his mask and feel your soul get eclipsed. He steals your breath, flips your world, and drenches you in ice-cold water. He’s beautiful in a way so specifically masculine. His face striated with lesions and gossamer-like scars, one running through his mouth and hefting up his upper lip, travelling towards his cropped hairline. Disappearing into his awkward cowlick.

Ghost’s hair is trimmed to his skull. There’s slivers of skin peeking through nicks and notches as a result of shaving himself over a ceramic sink. His breath struggles past his thin lips, puckering them. His eyes oscillate under his eyelids, his crows feet leathery and creased. 

“Doctor,” another medic says, calling for your attention. “How should we proceed?”

You place an ambu bag on Ghost’s face. Your fingers on his dimpled jawbone, your other hand pumping air into his lungs. It’s electric. You’re giving him life, you’re his God, you’re swelling his lungs like a second-hand kiss too taboo to be direct. “Any exit wounds?”

Ghost gets turned onto his side and has his shirt torn through. You subsist on the heat that pools under your cheeks, sticking your thighs together. His blood congeals into the spindly hairs of his chest, thickening as it disappears below his pants. The other surgeons flit their eyes over the sinews of his back, answering, “No.” 

It shouldn’t excite you. Really, it shouldn’t. But the thought of being inside Ghost—of coalescing with him, of being closer to him than anyone ever before—it excites you. For once, you’re not invisible to Ghost. For once, he’s at your mercy. On your table and bleeding out. In need of your deft hands, in need of your attention. 

“I’m doing a laparotomy.”

“But–”

“That wasn’t a question.”

A scalpel is quickly dropped in your hand. You use it to dig a divot in Ghost’s skin, slicing a transverse incision that opens him up and spills him onto your hands. You cut through his cutis and off-white subcutis, slicing his abdomen wall, the fibrous sheet of tissue. Blood leaks out of him how rain dribbles down a window. Pearlescent and beady. 

“Gimme suction,” you mumble. “And keep it out of my way. I’m removing the bullet.” 

Off the fringes of your vision, the other surgeons exchange wary glances. Any protests they have rot on their tongue, stuck under the boot of their chief resident. A tinny, thin sound peals out in the heli, the clang of you throwing your scalpel into the kidney dish. 

Gently, as if you’re holding glass, you slip your fingers into Ghost and slowly spread him open. It’s intoxicating. As if you’re splitting a mango open with your thumbs, the blood of it sluicing down your arms. Sweet and sticky. There’s a grotesque sound emanating from it—like when boots press in on a muddy ground. Ghost is all slippery and rubbery as your fingers search for a hot, eroded bullet. 

“Any luck, Doctor?” 

Your hands catch on gilded metal. You grasp it and pull yourself out, toss it in the kidney dish. You’re handed another instrument and start slice-wise swishes, closing him up. Sewing him back together like your own doll. His chest shudders under your fingers, rattling like wind-chimes. Your sutures are deep-seated and tight, strung out, because you don’t want to stop touching him. Because if you stop, he might unfurl again. Fall all over the place. Over the floor and over your pants and you can’t have that happen—you need Ghost full, thanking you properly for your work when he wakes up. 

You’re finished, rubbing your ichor-stained gloves together. You still feel the phantom layer of your hands under Ghost’s skin.

It’s so intimate—holding him and piecing him back together. Carefully, attentively, lovingly.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #cod mw2 #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #cod x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon ghost x you #simon riley/reader #simon writing #writing

[luveline]

For the zombie AU with Steve, maybe a night of survival in the cold? Reluctant cuddling, bonding?

YESSSS tysm for ur request i owe u my life

You pull your coat closed around your middle and shiver.

"Come here," Steve says, tucking the map under his arm.

You move to stand in front of him because he's slipped into his caretaking tone. A nice change. Usually he's just mildly annoyed.

He takes the zipper of your coat into his hand and scolds as he tries to fix it for the fiftieth time today. It's awful timing for it to break because it's cold as winter and you're on the road. A fire, as you've learned, would be a mistake. You close your eyes at the thought of such blistering warmth and listen to him cuss under his breath.

"Sorry," you say eventually. His quiet makes you nervous.

"Not your fault, just..." He gives up and steps away from you. "Bad timing."

You hide your hands in your sleeves.

"Maybe we should stop anyways. We're not exactly moving fast," he says bitterly.

You like the sound of that.

There's a tarp at the bottom of your backpack for occasions like this. You shed your bag and dig for it as Steve drops his own. It's not great, your having to carry blankets with you — they're heavy and take up a lot of space — but it's worse to freeze to death outdoors.

The sun creeps down low in the horizon lazily. You think it's as reluctant to go as you are for it to dissapear, its rays the only thing keeping the tip of your nose from freezing and falling off, no doubt.

You search for a stick. It's harder than it sounds.

Steve doesn't like walking along the road and you don't blame him, often there's cars or bikes weaving through the carcasses of cars picked clean, so you hide in the tree bank. A road block or something similar to the south must've broken recently, and the sound of engines revving at night gets more frequent. Better to stay hidden, even if finding somewhere to camp at night proves difficult.

The stick is necessary to build a makeshift tent, but the trees here are all spindly and thin-branched.

You return triumphant with something just long enough to keep the tarp from your bodies to find Steve's already found a better, chunkier stick and established a camp.

"Don't tell me, or anything. Just let me look for sticks for an hour."

"Your perception of time is getting worse."

"Some of us don't wear watches, 'cos we aren't rich, privileged babies."

He actually manages to laugh at that one, which is odd. It's one of the weakest insults you've ever thrown at him.

"That was bad," he says.

Oh. He's laughing at you.

"Jerk."

"What do you want? I have tinned peaches or a chocolate granola bar-"

"Obviously the granola-"

"With laxatative properties," he finishes, holding it between his fingers like a guy from the commercials. He shakes it at you enticingly.

"I'm not that hungry."

"Too bad."

You both sit near the makeshift tent in your heavy clothes. Steve stretches the blanket over your legs with a warning, "If you get peach juice on this I'm not gonna talk to you till Michigan."

You take the open can of peaches and pretend to tip it toward the blanket. "Don't tempt me, Harrington."

You have to keep talking because if you don't you'll cry. Really cry. Eating dinner like this from a can in a bed of leaf litter makes you want to cry. Every mouthful is sweet and sticky and your eyes get heavy with tears.

Steve understands what you're like by now. "I really fucking hate peaches," he says grandly. "I know you're surprised."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"No?"

"Do guys eat fruit?"

It's a talent.

"'Do guys eat fruit?'" he quotes seriously, pensive, like the answer escapes him.

He leans back against his rucksack and crosses his arms behind his head. He could be shooting the breeze, that's how relaxed Steve Harrington looks.

You laugh reluctantly into the can of peaches as you take a little sip of the juice and almost choke.

"I gotta eat that too, you know? Don't spit in it."

"Sorry," you say genuinely, wiping your sticky face with the back of your hand.

"You should be. Gross." He doesn't sound very bothered.

Steve eats his own peach slices with a shiver and tosses the can overhead. It goes really far, hitting the base of a tree across the way. You can imagine him in his gym clothes rather than what he wears now. Prim yellow shorts. Clean gym t-shirt with his name written in pen across the front.

"You can sleep first," he says.

You don't argue, sliding under the tarp with your blanket.

It's easier like this. The sun hasn't quite set but there's really nothing else to do. You'll sleep, Steve will wake you up in a couple of hours and then you'll swap. You'll wake Steve up when the sun rises, and another day on the road will begin.

The floor is very, very cold.

You try your best to stop from shivering and bring the blanket up to cover your face. The sun goes down and the last of its heat goes with it.

You stick it out. Complaining won't make it warmer. Steve doesn't even have a blanket.

"Y/N?" he whispers.

Leaves shift.

"Are you awake?"

You lift your head to see him where he sits at the opening of the 'tent'. It's difficult to make out his features now.

"I can hear your teeth," he says, eyes impassive as they scour your face.

"S-s-sorry," you shudder.

He stares at you for a while before stretching out his legs and shuffling across the dirt toward you. His hands are like ice as he works them under your shoulders and arms, dragging you into his lap.

You're tired and cold. "Steve," you grumble miserably, "what are you doing?"

"Body heat."

He doesn't stop until you're settled, slouching down so you can lean comfortably against his chest. He pulls the ends of your coats together tightly, readjusts your blanket, and covers your hands with both of his.

He yanks the tarp down and covers you with that, too, the both of your engulfed in plastic.

"What if it rains?" you ask.

"On our frozen corpses, you mean?"

You cringe and turn in his arms to hide your face in his scratchy jacket. His head drops toward his chest, chin gracing the top of your head. It's like a hug. It is a hug. You wrap your arms around his waist and try not to think about it.

It's not the most comfortable position in the world. Your back doesn't quite want to turn right, and his thigh probably hurts from your left elbow. Honestly, it's a pretty pathetic excuse for a hug.

"Why don't you just lie down with me?" you say into his coat.

"And get eaten?"

"There's no geeks around here."

"You say that," he murmurs, hands beginning a slow journey down the length of your back, "and then I'll wake up missing one of my legs."

Using the tarp as a blanket was a good idea. Already you feel warmer. Your face defrost where it's hidden in his front.

"Anymore stupid questions tonight?" Steve asks, voice low and amicable.

"Har-har," you mumble.

He rubs your back. Your eyes well up and you bite your lip to stop from crying. It's really, stupidly nice to be close to someone, to him. You miss comfort and music and eating enough, but you miss hugs most of all. You miss hugs from the people who loved you.

"Do you like me?" you whisper.

As soon as you've asked, you wish you hadn't. He doesn't answer, and you think Good, he didn't hear me.

"No more stupid questions," he says finally, tightening his grips on you. "Go to sleep."

-

more steve zombie!au

#steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #steve harrington x fem!reader #fem!reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #zombie!au #steve zombie!au

[eggedbellies]

It seems you've been given a gift - a large, beautiful plant with long, spindly vines. The care instructions for it mention that these vines like to climb anything you put them near to reach sunlight and that eventually, your plant will produce beautiful flowers.

As promised, within a few days bulbs have begun to dot your plant. A day later and they bloom, revealing large purple petals - and a thick vine-like stamen. The smell is intoxicating, and as you admire the blooms you don't quite notice the vines moving until it's too late. The spindly vines wrap around your wrists first, pinning your hands above your head before more vines grab your ankles. Your legs are spread open, any clothing you'd been wearing discarded.

One thin vine slowly presses up into cunt, probing at your walls as if it were exploring. It's an almost ticklish sensation that leaves you squirming, but the vines holding your limbs ensure there's no escape. The inner vine finally sneaks its way up to your cervix and presses on it. Seemingly unhappy with the resistance, it pushes up harder, earning a whine of discomfort from you. The plant is quick to pull back and rub your stomach apologetically with a new vine. Seems it doesn't want to hurt you...

The vines reposition you into a reclining pose, and another vine joins the one in your cunt, then another and another. As thin as they are, it'd not until five of them are probing your walls that you feel a stretch. And with the stretch comes the pleasure. One of the vines has started playing with your clit, while still others have started teasing your nipples. The sudden change from under-stimulation to overstimulation is almost enough to send you over the edge as it was, but as soon as you get close to climaxing the vines in you retreat.

You let out a whine of protest - only for it to turn into a moan as one of the thick stamen plunges deep into your cunt. Even after the vines had warmed you up you could barely handle it. The stamen had to be as thick as your arm, and as it thrust itself deeper inside of you you could swear it was growing bigger. There's a pressure at your cervix as it pushes its way inside. You can faintly see the outline of the stamen's tip in your tummy. One more thrust and the flower petals brush your ass and you know you couldn't free yourself if you wanted to. But of course - why would you?

Just as you're beginning to wonder if anything else is going to happen, the stamen begins to shake. You can feel something filling your womb, but your stomach barely reflects it, barely poaching out enough to hide the stamen itself.

The vines unceremoniously pull you off the stamen, a mix of your own juices and pollen dribbling from your cunt as you're now moved over an unbloomed pod. You've barely got time to realize what's happening before you're lowered onto it, stretching even more around the orb. You can feel yourself stretch until it hits your cervix, where it seems to stick for a moment before finally entering your womb. The stretch us enough to make you cum - hard. As you clamp down around the pod, it seems to explode, filling your womb with tiny seeds. Your conservative stomach pouch now made you look six months pregnant, though the lumpy texture assures you it's not a baby in there.

As the seed pod deflates and releases you, you feel satisfyingly full. The vines even allow you to rub your stomach - at least for a minute. As the vines restrain you again, you notice at least four more seed pods waiting their turns...

God fuck this is hot as hell, amazing writing nonny. I love plant sex ngl... the idea of this is amazing. The stretch of the stamen, the goo, thel ack of control,. the instant belly swelling like gnnhnhgh yess that's so good. I also love the idea of maybe on the last one they get put onto another stamen, stuffed and spread so they can't get loose but only slowly, slowly slip down, getting fuller and fuller as the weight of the seeds trap them there... until you're all but a plant yourself...

[tribbetherium]

Daggoths, with their subterranean lifestyles, unconventional limbs and even more peculiar senses, are easily among the most bizarre lineage ever to arise on HP-02017: a clade so derived as to look almost entirely alien. Yet, despite their otherworldy appearance, the daggoths are still mammals: giving birth to live young, and nourishing them with milk, at least for some period of time. And no other species combines the strange with the familiar as the spindled cheeseweaver (Lactarachne brevipus), a descendant of the roof stalac, an insectivore that dwells among the stalactites of the cave's ceiling, a biome obviously absent from the surface world.

Like its predecessor, the spindled cheeseweaver is an ambush hunter, pouncing on insects that it finds among the stone spikes. With long, spindly front digits, yet short, stubby rear ones, it ambles along predominantly with its forelimbs, while arching its back intermittently to secure its grip on another location, in a strange, nine-limbed inchworming gait. Its progress is helped along by broad pads on both fore and hind limbs that are equipped with thousands of tiny, densely packed hairs that allow it to stick tightly to even smooth surfaces, allowing it to negotiate the cavern roof, anchoring with its hind limbs while using its forelimbs to seize insect prey, be it feelerflits that blunder into its outstretched digits or other, flightless bugs that dwell on the rock surface, feeding on bacterial mats and fungi.

But easily the most remarkable characteristic of the cheeseweaver is the namesake ability the females have when rearing their young: they conceal their undeveloped, quasi-larval young in weblike cocoons that they affix to hidden crevices in the cave ceilings. These cocoons, reminescent of an arthropods', are perhaps the most unmammalian feature yet evolved by the daggoths, yet, conversely, is actually what ties the cheeseweaver to its mammalian ancestry: the webs are actually made of modified milk, and further taken to a bizarre extreme thanks to the fermentation and action of several species of symbiotic bacteria living in their mouths and plays a special role in the females.

In both sexes, these bacteria aid in an immune and digestive function, but in females, it contains just the right ingredients to make its silky webs. As daggoths rear their young for only a few days before they leave them, they produce particularly thick and concentrated milk rich in nutrients for their young, with high levels of protein to facilitate their quick growth. This feature is repurposed in this particular species, as when female cheeseweavers lactate, they do so shortly prior to birth, then use their long forelimbs to scoop up the creamy mixture into their cheek pouches. Here, the bacteria begin their work, separating out the proteins into a thick, stringy, and stretchy material after a period of at least 1-2 days that then, piece, by piece, the cheeseweaver female then pulls from her mouth in ropy threads and spins into a cocoon with her four pairs of fore-digits, stretching and spinning and weaving it in a disconcertingly arachnid-like manner into a protective pouch. Once finished, she inserts her rear end into the pouch, births anywhere from six to twelve tiny young each barely 4 millimeters long, and finishes it with a second layer of fibers to safely seal them inside a permeable shell that allows them to respire, as, at this point, the almost-embryonic young breathe entirely through their thin, vacularized skin that directly absorbs oxygen, as their lungs are not yet fully developed.

Once her job is finished, the female cheeseweaver conceals the cocoon with a lick of saliva that masks its scent and firms its adhesion to the surface, and then wanders off with no further care. She can spin several such cocoons during the breeding season, bearing her offspring in batches. The young, in turn, develop safely inside the cocoons, hidden away from predators that hunt mostly by scent. Inside, she has packed into the cocoons as well a rich reserve of the thick, fatty milk, semi-solidified to a soft, jelly-like consistency, to serve as a food source for the developing young. It is during this period that her symbiotic microbes again play an important role: they produce antimicrobial excretions that ward off pathogens and harmful bacteria that may infest the milk and harm the young, but which are tolerated by the beneficial bacteria that are then ingested by the young and become symbionts of them in turn. Once their teeth are fully matured, at the age of about two to three weeks, the young chew their way out of the cocoon and, after consuming the remainder of the empty husk, emerge out into the world, skilled hunters from day one that first practice on microscopic invertebrates before graduating to a diet of bigger insects as they progress toward adulthood.

-----------

And one final late-Spectember entry before schedule conflicts take over again. Sorry again to those who expected much content for Spectember, I hope you don't mind irregular random posting.

#speculative evolution #speculative biology #spec evo #speculative zoology #hamster's paradise #spectember

[irregularcollapse]

a storm that took everything

a gothic romance by phlegmatic

Fresh.

IV. A Halo All of Green

“Hello?” Damen calls, as gently as he can, aware his voice can come deep and gravelled at times. “It is all right; I will not hurt you.” He imbues the assurance with all of his certainty, all of his calm, knowing of the shape his person probably makes in the dark: tall, hulking, so unlike the other men who inhabit this place. His efforts are met, however, with a sharp prod to his thigh, swift and piercing and sudden enough to force him into stumbling another scant step, inhaling roughly. Looking down and using the candlelight shows four thin, curving marks of blood on the white cotton of his shirt, spaced nearly evenly but in a sort of crescent, as though—as though made by vicious fingertips. The gaze that Damen casts over the hallway feels frantic, light held higher in a fruitless effort to illuminate more of this close corridor, this oddly doorless chute, this tunnel that leads to mere blackness, blackness that sparks with dust-like specks the longer Damen peers into it, specks that shift and form and stick to the wall, a huddled shape, a small hand with overly-long, unnaturally spindly fingers crawling out from the shadow across the wallpaper—

With his father on Death's door, his brother increasingly surly, and his fiancée pulling away, Captain Damianos Vasilias feels on the cusp of drowning beneath expectation. When tragedy strikes, he finds himself pulled to the depths of a world of sinister secrets and morbid memories—a Veretian Château hiding more than ghosts behind its many locked doors. Unlocking the past is the key to Damen's future, and his survival… and that of the reclusive, beautiful, intriguing young man who calls the Château home.

Chapter IV of my Damen x Laurent Gothic Romance, a storm that took everything, is available to read now on ao3 🖤

This fic is best read while listening to the playlist full of impeccable Gothic vibes.

Updates fortnightly on Sundays.

Artwork in chapter banner is The Moon Maiden by Frank Dicksee (1923).

Fic title from the song 'A Storm That Took Everything' by Thom Yorke, from the soundtrack for Suspiria (2018).

#captive prince #damen x laurent #capri fic #lamen fic #captive prince fic #a storm that took everything fic #my writing #a certified ghost moment!!! oh wow! #things getting more complex for damen uh oh #nothing is what it appears to be!

[beemers-hell]

Gen q here: Aside from the banger outfits on the new MH dolls do u prefer the designs of the dolls themselves from the original run or this new one? I personally loved how the pets used to look now they look too cutesy imo I miss when Hissette and Lagoona’s fish looked like y’know actually dangerous animals lol

For me it kind of depends? Like specific aspects I'd say I prefer G1 over G3, other aspects I prefer G3 over G1. Like the pets, I also agree with that, I'm not a fan of how cutesy the G3 pets look, especially with how many of them are just basic ass cats and dogs, or at least look like it? Like, G3 Count Fabulous is a cute thing sure but it doesn't compare to G1's spindly ass actually bat shaped creature that was Count Fabulous. Same goes for G3 vs G1 Chewlian, Neptuna, hell I was annoyed they initially replaced Hissette with that dog G3 signature Cleo came with?? That's so uncreative. I think Crescent and Shiver are the only pets from this Gen that I think look just as good/better than G1 in Shiver's case.

Anyway! Aside from pets lmao, like I said I think they have their own design strengths and weaknesses. Like, the fashion? I do love a lot of the designs for the G3 dolls but I do miss the darker colors and more intricate outfit pieces of G1. It's only within like, the past couple of months that I think G3 has finally hit it's stride and is starting to live up to the same level of thought and purpose G1 was on? And that's a whole other discussion to be had about the difference in their fashion ethos, I'm not getting into it right now but it's interesting, and most certainly not a "MH isn't goth anymore" thing lol. MH wasn't goth in the first place, but that's for another discussion lmao <3

And like, both gens have ugly designs, it's not like either of them is good or bad 100% of the time. Like I can't stand G3 Ghoulia's design, but also I can't stand Howleen's redesign from G1. In fact there's quite a bit of dolls from G1 that I would say are objectively bad, not as bad as G2, but compared to what it we knew it was capable of, some dolls just look lackluster. Both of them are very much capable of fumbling the bag lmao

G3 I think has the biggest design strengths when it comes to the variety of the dolls, cause you can not look me in the eyes and tell me G1 was better at body diversity, or diversity in general, when all the ghouls had the same stick thin ass body molds lmao. Obvs there were a couple of dolls with different heights and specific changes to their molds based on the monster they were, but G3 is just doing SOOO much better in terms of actual varied body diversity. I know Draculaura isn't actually chunky or anything but she's short and has a wide waist and thighs and her figure resembles mine and that makes me so happy. Abbey being fucking TALL and wide fits her so much better than the stick thin body she was confined to in G1. And Catty's upcoming G3 doll having a truly fat body mold?? G1 would NEVER lmao. All the ghouls have bodies that better reflect them in my opinion, they all don't look the exact same in the body shape department and that's wonderful.

Also like, the face sculpts vary based on the race of the characters now and that's amazing? Like, one look at G3 Venus' face sculpt and we immediately knew she was Black, that's not something you can say about G1 and I'm happy they're putting in that extra effort nowadays.

Anyway my point is: each Gen is better than one another in specific aspects, they're worse than the other one is in others. I love both Gens for what they are, I don't think I could say I prefer one over the other because they're both special to me. I got a bit off topic but like, yanno lmao

#beemer asks

[hrodvitnon]

Well Catholic cannibalism day was yesterday and April First is today. GxK has reignited my creative Kaiju juices so in the body horror/funny spirit of the back to back holidays, have an idea for how Godzooky/Godzuki could work in the Abraxasverse.

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APEX Cybernetics was in precarious position. The Mechagodzilla project was going well. Too well. In its early days, APEX had stocked up on as much Titan DNA as it could harvest before the events of Keizer Ghidorah and the Many’s rampage made acquiring such genetic material an international crime. It had managed to acquire various specimens, including many skullcrawler eggs. However over time, their supply dwindled. The mechs and its prototype had proven to be too effective at defeating its opponents, eviscerating damn near every last Titan specimen the company had on hand. Things were getting desperate. They could continue to clone what little stock they had left of course, but would it really help? Sure the mecha may have been able to wipe out skullcrawlers just fine, but how would it fair against a true Titan? Especially against a king.

Luckily for those unfortunate APEX scientists tasked with figuring out a solution, one soon came. Somehow, someway, Walter Simmons came into a large stockpile of Titan DNA, recovered from the battle against the many. Amongst the various samples was genetic tissue from the king himself, Godzilla. This would be perfect. There was just one small issue: all calculations showed that a member of Godzilla’s species would take years, potentially even decades, to reach its maturity. That wouldn’t. They could not have Mechagodzilla facing off against a mere infant. There would be no point. But Skullcrawlers took only a few months to reach maturity, especially once pumped with the stimulants the company had engineered. And so, with the insistence of Mr Simmons, APEX’s genetic labs attempted something different. Something bold. Something mad. They would use genetic tissue from both Skullcrawlers and Godzilla to create a clone which would reach physical maturity at the rate of the former, while having the physical capabilities of the latter. They would not be an exact genetic copy, but it was close enough. It was risky. But would it pay off?

Some months later, Walter Simmons was invited to observe firsthand the progress on “Project: Nephew”, so named for its intended close but not quite replication of Godzilla’s form. When he arrived, he was aghast at what he saw. The process, in an attempt to splice the genetic material and replicate the advanced development of skullcrawlers, had produced an abomination unlike any he had ever seen. Like Godzilla, it possessed four limbs instead of the Skullcrawlers two, but they were all wrong. The front arms seemed to have developed in a strange misshapen way, resemble long Godzilla’s but as if stretched across a frame they weren’t built for. They were thin, to the point of being little more than skin stretched across a petite layer of musculature atop bone. A thin membrane, remnants of what should have been broader shoulders, hung limply below The body was no better, with a stick thin upper half coalescing into a fleshy misshapen hip region, with thighs that resembled tumors more than functioning legs. A long and bulbous tail followed, dragging the poor creatures weight in a way that forced it to stand upright, despite every other part of its body showing that it shouldn’t be able to stand that way, let alone move. For the most part, the being lacked Godzilla’s dorsal plates, except for a few scattered atop its neck and cranium. Unlike the king’s they were not sharp and proud, but deformed and splayed out in odd positions, resembling blobs of flesh more than individual plates. As he observers its long spindly neck, he soon came to that which rested atop it. A horrifically misshapen head, with a snout which curved upwards towards it cranium, with a layer of flesh which alternated between virtually nonexistent and inflated making its way around the skull. Its eyes were hollow, damn near lifeless.

Simmons couldn’t believe what he was seeing. How had an attempt to create a near clone of Godzilla resulted in this? As he inquired, furious in his questions, he soon gained some insight. The abnormalities were the result of the two species genetic code attempting to overwrite the other as it grew, a process only worsened by the stimulants which it was supplied. Furthermore, while the creature was physically an adult, it was incredibly small, barely bigger than Kong had been in 1973. But the worst was yet to come. The dueling genomes and accelerated growth cycle had left it effectively with the mental state of an infant despite its body being far older. This was not a prognosis that would or could improve, as the damage to its genetic structure had seemingly permanently halted brain development.

Walter Simmons was aghast. All of his money, all of his resources, and this was the best his team could provide? It was a failure. And Walter Simmons despised failure. Within minutes he ordered the team to go back to the drawing board. To figure out a new way to achieve the desired result, lest they no longer be of use to APEX. As for the aberration, it was to be terminated. It couldn’t be set free of course, that would raise suspicion. And Simmons would rather be caught dead before he let this thing face off against either of his previous mecha. So, with a flippant turn and a saunter, he ordered the poor creation to be fed to the other test subjects. Alive. It would serve as a treat for the beasts and a warning for those who had brought poor thing into this world to begin with.

-

-

-

That was probably a mess but just had the idea what with April Fools and Easter being so close together, that a lil body horror take on one of the biggest scrappy’s in the franchise would make sense. I’ll be back with Abraxasverse takes on actual Toho Kaiju soon. Happy April Fools!

Oh hey, I remember Godzooky, this should be inter--

...well then.

Cut to Ladon trying to learn how to fly and haphazardly crashing all over the place while Mothra tries giving him directions. Rodan is about to heckle the kid but keeps his beak shut after a pointed glare from Mothra.

#darthpan

[somediyprojects]

Paper Icelandic Poppies

Project by Kate Alarcón:

There’s a particular kind of lady-slipper orchid that I have made and remade and adjusted and readjusted.  I’ve probably made a hundred little green orchid slipper prototypes, and each try is more frustrating than the last. At this point, I suspect that the minute I finally do figure out this orchid, I’ll make it and then crumple it up, just to vent my irritation.

The Icelandic poppy is another flower that I feel like I’ve never completely nailed down. I’ve been tinkering with this version for over a year now. But unlike the lady-slipper, just about every attempt at this poppy has been really fun. I think it’s because poppies — with their wrinkled petals and hairy, spindly, crooked stems — are gloriously awkward. My practice poppies could carry off every little eccentricity I inflicted on them with rumpled panache.

I hope you’ll make your own awkwardly glorious bouquet of poppies and stick them in a vase and fuss with them as they tilt their blooms at weird angles, and lean all over the place, being disagreeable. And just when you’re about to throw up your hands, you’ll step back and realize that it’s all come together. You’ll want to make more.

The crinkle technique I describe below is adapted from Livia Cetti’s gorgeous and essential book, The Exquisite Book of Paper Flowers.

Special thanks to the phenomenally talented Lynn Dolan (@lmdolan75 on Instagram) for her generous advice on this project! —Kate

Photography by Kate Alarcón

Supplies

-18 gauge cloth-covered floral wire -8mm wooden beads -white cosmetic wedge sponges for applying glue -sharp scissors –poppy templates

Crepe paper

This is what I used, but definitely feel free to mix it up and substitute.

From Castle in the Air:

-“Pale Yellow Green” heavy crepe for the frill at the top of the seed pod -“Lemon” heavy crepe for the stamen filaments -“Sunflower” fine crepe for the anthers at the end of the stamens -Fine crepe in “Red,” “Persian Pink,” “Pale Pink,” “Pink,” “Sunflower,” and “Vanilla” for the petals

From Paper Mart:

-“Moss Green” heavy crepe to cover the pod and wrap the stem, from Paper Mart

Optional:

Design Master Color Tool Spray in “Holiday Red,” “Perfect Pink,” “Coral,” “Orange,” and “Yellow”

PanPastel in “Permanent Red Tint 340.8,” “Permanent Red 340.5,” “Orange 280.5,” and “Hansa Yellow 220.5”

A note about grain:

The grain of the crepe paper runs parallel to the roll or fold.  You will almost always cut petals with the grain, placing the template so that the tiny wrinkles in the paper run up and down the template, not across. Each template includes an arrow to show the direction the grain should run.

Constructing the seed pod at the center of the flower:

The first step is to create the little frill at the top of the seedpod. Use template A to cut a frill piece from the pale green heavy crepe. Stretch the wider end of the piece all the way out, flattening all the little crinkles in the upper half inch of the frill piece.

Twist the frill piece, beginning about ½” below the top edge. The part of the frill that you stretched will form a little funnel. As I twist, I like to place my fingertip inside this funnel so that it stays open.

If this feels cumbersome, it’s fine to just twist and then use one end of your floral wire to reopen the funnel.

Insert the twisted bottom part of the frill piece into your wooden bead.

Dip the tip of your wire in the glue and scrape off any extra so that you have a thin coat that isn’t dripping all over the place. Insert this wire tip into the bottom of the bead, next to the bottom of the fringe that you’ve just inserted.

You don’t need to push this all the way up into the bead.  You’re mostly just trying to anchor the wire tip inside the bead. You’ll secure it in the next step.

Use template B to cut a rectangle from the medium green heavy crepe. Snip a very short fringe across the top of this rectangle (it’s fine to freehand this, but you can also use the lines drawn across the top of template B).

Use your sponge to swipe a thin layer of glue over this piece. Lay your bead on top of the rectangle, so that the top edge is slightly higher than the top of the bead.  Stretch the rectangle around the bead and press either side together.

Trim the excess rectangle.

Use your fingers to press the fringes of the green crepe down onto the top of the bead. Scrunch the green paper beneath the bead around the wire.

This will secure the pod to the wire.

For the stamens:

Use template C to cut a rectangle from the pale yellow, heavy crepe. Stretch this rectangle all the way out.  It should now be the same width as template D, but if it’s wider, trim any excess. The dotted line across template D shows how deep you should cut the fringe. (You’ll be cutting from the top). You can trace this line with a pencil or just fold along it and let the crease mark where your fringe should stop.

Without stressing out about it, cut the fringe as finely as you can.

Using the diagonal line on template D as a guide, cut away some of the excess paper beneath your fringe.  This will create less of a bump where you’ve applied your stamens, and also smooth the transition from stem to blossom.

Use your wedge sponge to apply glue to the area beneath the dotted line. Place your bead on this fringe piece, so that the bottom of the bead sits just above the dotted line. Roll the fringe around the bead loosely.

Don’t worry about what’s happening below the bead; just focus on making sure that the fringe at the top is even all the way around.

Scrunch the bottom of the fringe around the wire all the way up to the base of the pod.

Gently pinch the filaments between your thumb and forefinger and bend them away from the center, all the way around, creating a tidy ring of stamens.

Now you’ve got your stamen filaments ready to go!

Cut a 3”x 9” rectangle from the orange fine crepe (the short sides will run parallel to the grain.) Fold it in half vertically and in half vertically again.

Cut a fine fringe through all these layers, turn it 90 degrees, and cut across your fringe to create a fine “confetti.” Gently sweep this confetti into a little pile.

Squirt some glue onto a paper plate or disposable dish, and dip the ends of the yellow fringe into the glue.

To keep my seedpod frill clear of the glue, I prefer to hold the stem at a 45 degree angle and dip one section of the fringe at a time, slowly twirling it to glue all the way around.

Dip your fringe into the pile of confetti.  Now your filaments have anthers!

Adding color:

You can apply color before or after you cut your petals.

If I’m using the Color Tool spray, I prefer to color sheets of paper ahead of time. Though the odor fades after a couple of days, this stuff smells really intensely like bug spray when you first apply it, so I strongly recommend doing this outside, preferably with a mask on.

Shake the can well, and spray on a light coat.  If you’d like more intense color, let the first coat dry a little bit and then spray on another light coat.  I like to spray rows of color across the grain of my paper, spacing them a little bit farther apart than my petal height.

If I’m using PanPastels, I usually cut and then color my petals. Use your cosmetic sponge to swipe the pastel onto the petal, swiping with the grain of the paper.

I especially like to apply it so that the color is more intense toward the petal edges, fading toward the bottom, though you could also reverse that.

Clockwise from top: 1. “Vanilla” crepe with “Holiday Red” spray, 2. “Red” crepe with “Orange” PanPastel, 3. “Sunflower” crepe with “Holiday Red” spray, 4. “Vanilla” crepe with “Orange” spray, 5. “Light Pink” crepe with “Yellow” spray, 6. “Vanilla” fine crepe with “Perfect Pink” spray, 7. “Persian Pink” crepe with “Coral” spray, and “Persian Pink” crepe with “Holiday Red” spray.

For the petals:

Each poppy will have six petals: two from template E, two from template F, and two from template G.  Templates E through F are actually half a petal, so you’ll need to fold your fine crepe parallel to the grain and place the dotted line along the fold.

Lay the petal on a smooth surface.  Place your fingertips about an inch in from the edge of the petal closest to you. Place your thumbs right on the edge, behind your fingers. Use your thumbs to drag or inch the paper toward your fingers. When your thumbs and fingers touch, leave your thumb where it is, lift your fingertips and set them down about an inch forward. Repeat until you’ve gathered the whole petal into pleats.

Pick up your gathered petal and pinch up and down it to set the pleats.

Holding the pleats in place, twist the petal as though you were gently wringing water out of a rag. You’ll twist them pretty firmly, but I find it works better to use a lot of little twisting motions than to try to do everything all in one big twist. Untwist and gently spread the petal, taking care not to smooth the tiny pleats and wrinkles very much.

You can curl your petal at this point or after you glue your pleats.

Curling the petals is a lot like curling ribbon for giftwrap: you can scrape the petal with the blade of your scissors, a skewer, or just your fingers, moving from the base of the petal to the upper edge as you scrape.

Spread the bottom half inch of the template most of the way out and use your sponge to dab glue all the way across the bottom of the petal.

Pinch the bottom edge to gather it back up. Let the glue dry for a few minutes.

Snip off the excess bulk at the bottom of the petal.

Attaching the petals:

You’ll apply the petals in pairs. Start with the template E’s, and place them on opposite sides of the pod.  Apply a little bit of glue to the base of the petal and press it right up under the bead.

The second set of petals, the F’s, come next. Working clockwise, place each F beside each E, so that each F overlaps each E by about 30 percent.

Finally, apply each template G petal beside your template F petals, again overlapping by about 30 percent.

Finishing your flower:

Cut a few ¼” x 8” strips across the grain of the medium green heavy crepe. Dab glue on the first two or three inches of the strip and tightly wrap the section of the stem just beneath the flower to secure the petals and hide the petal bottoms. Apply a small amount of glue to one side of the stem wire. (I usually glue four or five inches of the stem at a time so I don’t get as much glue on my hands.)

Hold the strip at a 45-degree angle to the stem and gently stretch the strip as you twirl the stem, spinning the strip all the way to the bottom. If your strip breaks or runs out, just begin with a new strip right above the place on the stem where your previous strip ended.

Once the glue is dry, take some time to straighten your stamens and arrange your petals. You might want to curl some a little bit more, or gently tug a petal’s edge to straighten out crumpled pleats, or press some of the petals down where the petal meets the center to separate the layers.

Sources for supplies:

Michaels: 18 gauge floral wire, Design Master spray, wooden beads, glue

Castle in the Air: Crepe paper, glue, wire

Paper Mart: Crepe paper

Blick: PanPastels

#diy #crafts #paper #x

[motownfiction]

as good as you'll get

Sadie feels insecure when she looks in the mirror, too.

She almost feels like she can’t talk about it. No, she definitely feels like she can’t talk about it. Lucy spends so much vulnerable time talking about all the things she doesn’t like about her body (not tall enough for massive boobs, not born to be willowy, teeth that stick out just a tad too far in her mouth). Sadie never gets to say any of the same things.

Because none of the same things apply. Sadie is five-foot-ten, tall enough to be a model in some circles. Lucy thinks that makes her beautiful, enviable, all these pretty words that Sadie wishes she was worthy of. It’s nice, sometimes, to be five-foot-ten. But it also means she’s taller than Daniel – noticeably taller than Daniel – and she’s never been sure of what to do with that.

And she is willowy. She was born that way. Naturally thin and spindly, a little like a flower, or so she tells herself when she wants to feel pretty. But it doesn’t matter. Because she’ll never have the curves that Lucy has, the look of a Marilyn, the thing that makes timeless pin-ups what they are. She’ll just be a ruler, blowing in the wind, not even in a cool, folksy, Dylan way.

Her teeth are straight, too. She never had braces. Just born with a perfect bite. All the Doyle kids were. They get it from their mother, who has never believed she’s anything but beautiful. Not a day in her life. But boys always compliment Lucy on her smile when she’s brave enough to really share it. They like her overbite. It makes her surprisingly cute for a bitch. At least, that’s what Nick Crosby said once, when Sadie wasn’t supposed to hear. Never mind that he was Sadie’s first kiss two years ago. Never mind that at all.

It doesn’t matter if Sadie’s looks are enviable to Lucy. It doesn’t matter if people call her beautiful, too. Sadie is sixteen years old, and when she sees herself, she sees nothing but a mistake. If only she’d inherited her mother’s unearned confidence. Then maybe she wouldn’t spend all morning in front of a mirror, picking herself apart like a bad poem.

This morning, she shakes her head at herself. She has a few hairs on top of her head that simply will not lay flat. Mom calls them baby hairs. Sadie thinks she’d rather die than have baby hairs at the age of sixteen. Is that who she is? Is she a baby forever? She sighs. She doesn’t have time for all these questions.

“This is as good as you’ll get,” she whispers to herself.

It’s the cry of a million girls all at once, usually so low and so sinister that only they can hear it … and only when they’re alone.

Sadie knows that. But for now – just now – this one is about her.

(part of @nosebleedclub poetry month challenge -- day 1! i know i'm once again starting off behind, but i hope to keep up kind of well again)

#drabble #writeblr #ch: sadie doyle #year: 1983

[melancholymirth]

"Oh my beloved,

I looked upon you once

And the saw the dawn

Of a thousand suns."

/ if you can tell me exactly which poem I'm referencing here, I will literally spontaneously die for you

My sweetest love.

Little could be said to the affection with which V was daily showered, it had become so everyday, habitual, even ritual without need for arrangement nor prompt. Committed kisses shared at close of day, a caress of the cheek at daybreak, the inappropriate but wholly intentional, sometimes mutual grope behind the bar, behind closed doors, and anywhere problematic eyes were turned away from them: these and more were all part of the norm, but when it came to art—poetry—there was a richness of imagination and a depth of feeling that transcended even the much loved norms that came like second nature to lovers as fiery and as devoted as Garrett and V. Simply, they took romance and made it romantic.

Perhaps effusively, egregiously, sickeningly so to some, but...

Weakly, sleepily, the fiend's handsome face was gathered in spindly hands, and a gentle tug brought him close for a peck on the lips. V could barely keep his eyes open; and while he loathed waking up at all, he found it difficult to keep cranky when his husband had artful sugar on his tongue. I've heard this before... It was a lazy day, more than likely a Sunday: wedded mates could afford to idle in bed, and V was happy to be awake for something stimulating that wasn't sex.

Not that he'd complain, much, otherwise.

"Sometimes," he said quietly, "I think you're worse than I." He let his arms drop from weakness alone, one to his left and the other over his stomach. "Now you've got me thinking." Because of course he had to meet Garrett there, to match him for poetic spark. This early in the morning (it wasn't, it was nine), his creative mind was not at its strongest, but he knew it also to be reliable. While he thought, he briefly brought up a hand to twist round his finger a tuft of Garrett's hair, and then tugged and brushed so long as his mate was above him. Seeking inspiration was not so hard; forming the thought and the structure was. And, by Jove, the sleepy warlock had done it!

"In my veins you live eternal... Something, something."

Partially. Only partially, of course.

"My every breath— Hm. Blood and breath..." He made a mental, though audible, note, there. His eyes were fleetingly distant before they were recaptured by the blue in Garrett's, and it seemed whatever spark was ignited did not die suddenly. A poet shan't allow his ideas to slip free! For his dearest and most beloved, and perhaps his favorite muse, he smiled enough to show teeth. "I'll have to figure it out. I can't, without writing." Ah, but poor Garrett if he'd gotten curious now. He would have to await V's fresher mind and time spent at a writing desk, but all the better to impress him. The longer V's consciousness recovered, however, the more strength he regained in his body, and that was proven true in the keen, firm way in which stick-thin arms wrapped around the demon's inked shoulders, all in the name of pulling him closer for that everyday, habitual, even ritual exchange of affection they could not hope to live without. They kissed again, longer, softer, with more of everything in it.

V had to have been in a delightful mood, because he found more than a spark of creativity within himself: he found one of humor, and he exercised it mildly when the kiss was through. Sleep faded not only from body, but from mind. "If we go on like this, I may think of more. Do inspire me, Garrett."

#astarablaze #// HMMM a challenge. Though I feel in my bones it's a poem he wrote for/about V. #// Is it.../the/ one? The big one? Wherein he realizes it's love and devotion? #// I also have a feeling it's the one about...a black sun? The one he has on his back skgjsdfhg #// Though I'm more convinced it's the former TELL ME I'M WRONG TBH. #// Testing our friendship this way smh #// ANYWAY here's them. IT'S BEEN SO LONG. AH. #// FEED ME SEYMOUR.

[fissions-chips]

i tire of this human duet

—————————

(Summoned to Valentine’s tower on the pretense of new information, Apollo finds himself with an unsettling and unexplainable new acquaintance) 

—————————

(tw gore, body horror)

   Apollo was no stranger to… interesting acquaintances.

   The criminal underworld, unfortunately, appealed to the oddest of characters- some living up to their chosen roles to a cartoonish degree, and others carrying a genuinely unsettling, uncomfortable aura about them. In a world of conmen, masterminds, murderers and brutes, it made sense that some would rise above the rest in his memory. They usually avoided him all the same- perhaps he himself fit into a similar category in the minds of others, something about his general demeanor enough to drive them, blessedly, away. 

   Not Valentine, though. The preening, sugar-sweet peacock of a man was always throwing an arm around him, offering him cigarettes or, if nothing else, the opportunity to complain about everything (and everyone) else without so much as a sneer. Something within the sinister CEO allowed him to tolerate Apollo’s bitter company with unfamiliar grace, to the point that the forgotten Fowl wouldn’t be surprised if the other saw him as something approaching a friend. 

   He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

   Through Valentine, all sorts of other interesting individuals had come to shake his hand- the latest dinner party of Damon Kronski came to mind, Apollo guided from the company of wicked poachers to crooked developers to the head of it all himself. Save for Kronski, their names had slipped from his mind already, the purple-suited man the only individual distinct enough to make a real impression. The amount of animal prints one man could manage to wear in a single outfit would have almost been impressive… were it not for the fact that they were animal prints, mixed. 

   Apollo had to admit, however- this current ‘business partner’ of Valentine’s, seated across from him, was by far the strangest… and the most disturbing. 

   Shifting a little bit further back in his seat, the man watched, unsettled, as ‘Costa’ folded limbs far too long to be human a little bit further, so it could curl itself even closer to Valentine. The movement was accompanied by the quiet click and grinding of bone- Apollo’s frown twisted further, nausea bubbling up in the back of his stomach, as if someone had decided to stir his guts with a stick. 

   “You’ll forgive my friend here,” Valentine drawled, ignoring the monstrous face hidden in the curve of his throat in favor of gesturing idly with his cigarette. “It’s been a long day. How’ve you been, Lo?” 

   His eyes were glittering with amusement behind the darkened lenses of his glasses, haphazardly perched on the end of his nose- his head was tilted slightly by Costa's own, tucked beneath his jaw. The creature shifted, one massive hand reaching up to curl into the front of the businessman’s coat with spindly, taloned fingers, and Valentine laughed a little at the way Apollo’s eyes widened, lips pressed together in a thin line. 

   “It’s been…” Apollo started, before his words trickled off. Swallowing thickly, he took in a deep breath, before hiding his eyes behind one hand for a moment- a flicker of irritation sparked in his chest, and he clung to it, hoping it would burn away some of his discomfort. 

   “Valentine, what the fuck is that?” 

   “Hmm?” The CEO tilted his head further, ignoring the ensuing hiss and the way Apollo flinched at the sound. “Ah, I forgot… well, I’m not sure, really. Something not very human.” 

   Apollo glared at him. Beneath Valentine’s jaw, he watched as the gleam of sharpened teeth appeared as if by magic, a fibrous line of splitting flesh that slit the creature’s neck down the side- bone and muscle rippled beneath, before the gristly split melted back together beneath tanned skin, there and then gone in the span of a few seconds.

   “Yes, I can damn well see that.”

   Valentine huffed, sinking back further against the couch- he tossed one leg over the other, brow briefly furrowing in irritation at the other man’s sharpened tone. Then, his expression softened slightly, back into that of amusement and shallow humor. He was no stranger to Apollo Fowl’s bad moods. 

   “It’s some sort of… doppelgänger? Body-snatcher? The word it gave me my tongue can’t really make sense of, but those are the closest comparisons I can think of.” Glancing down, Valentine lifted a hand, resting it against the creature’s arm and giving it a little pat, like he was comforting a pet. Something in Apollo twisted a little at the sight, and his eyes narrowed. 

   “Its kind picks a person and becomes them over time, I believe? And Costa here has picked my good friend, Jon Spiro, a transformation I am more than happy to facilitate.” 

   “Is it… intelligent?” 

   Apollo’s voice was low, and Valentine’s eyes glittered at the slightest hint of curiosity there, beneath the sharp edge of irritation. “Oh, yes, very much so.” He purred, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and letting a plume of smoke drift over the creature curled against his chest. Apollo heard a quiet hiss, Costa sniffing the air like a dog before turning its face further into the businessman’s neck. There’s nothing, really, to stop it from tearing his throat out, Apollo thought, and for a moment he found himself equally unsettled by Valentine’s nonchalance as he was at the inhuman creature. 

   “It’s as intelligent as you or I, just in an… alien sort of way. I assure you, it’s listening in on our conversation, it just doesn’t talk very much.” Valentine lifted his hand and tilted his head back, revealing one long, pointed ear and the sharp, skeletal curve of Costa’s jaw. Running his finger down the edge of it, Valentine snickered as the air filled with an eerie, rumbling growl, Costa shifting a bit against him, before continuing. 

   “Sometimes, it just takes a little bit of effort to keep itself together. Costa told me once that its kind don’t sense things the way we do, with sight and sound- they’re limited to touch. Taste. So at times its host body is… overwhelming for it. When that happens it gets like this- though it is unusually clingy today, I’ll admit.”

   As he spoke, Costa finally decided to lift its head from beneath Valentine’s own, tilted as if in curiosity. Slowly, the features of a stolen face made themselves known as it swiveled to face him, stretched, distorted- Apollo had seen Jon Spiro’s face before, on magazine covers. What he was met with was like a carnival mirror from hell- save for the fact that the face that met him was devoid of eyes. 

   Not empty, unseeing sockets- where eyes should be, there was only smooth, unbroken flesh, and Apollo couldn’t quite bite back the little shriek that left his throat at the sight, one hand fisting into the fabric of the couch beneath as he leaned back, eyes wide. 

   At the sound, Costa cocked its head, pointed ears twitching- nausea roiled stronger in Apollo’s stomach, bile rising in the back of his throat. He couldn’t look at it- he couldn’t look away. He was trapped in a gaze that didn’t exist. Heart pounding in a fluttering beat-beat-beat, Apollo forced himself to choke out. 

   “Valentine, just what does it like to ‘taste’?”

   The other man was silent for a moment- then he lifted his gaze, looking Apollo dead in the eye. His expression, however, held no fear, only a wicked sort of amusement. 

   “You’re a smart man, Lo. You know perfectly well.”

   Bristling, Apollo shifted back further, half-risen to stand as he eyed the door. “So that’s why you asked me here, then?” He spat- between his head spinning and the violent roiling in his stomach, he could hardly choke the words out. Something’s wrong, he realized. Something’s very, very wrong. “So your stupid new pet could make a meal of me, you s-sick fuck?”

   Brow furrowing, Valentine shot the man across from him a quizzical look- Apollo was shaking against the couch, face drawn and pale, teeth bared. Then, a spark of recognition came to his eyes, and he glared down at the creature curled up in his lap, lightly cuffing it across the shoulder. 

   “Costa, stop that! I told you not to spook him.”

   To Apollo’s surprise, Costa flinched slightly, like a chastised pet- turning its head, it hissed at him. The man watched, sickened, as it blinked, skin splitting and peeling back, revealing eyes that were painfully inhuman, nearly all-black to the edges like a deep-sea shark. The pupils were dilated, unfocused- nonetheless, as soon as it turned away, Apollo felt his heartbeat skip, once, and then pound a little slower. He lifted a hand to his heaving chest. 

   “What… the fuck..” 

   “Forgive me, I forgot to warn you- sometimes it has that effect on people, looking right at them,” Valentine huffed. “It’s supposed to control it around my guests, though. I asked nicely.” Reaching out, he suddenly grabbed the creature by its dust-colored hair, shaking a finger at it like an irate mother. 

   “Behave, Costa. Apollo’s a good friend of mine, I won’t have you giving him nightmares.”

   The image was so absurd that for a few seconds, all Apollo could do was blink, watching for his heart to slow- he failed, in that moment, to fully catch that he had, indeed, been called a ‘friend’ (though this would be remembered, and heavily picked apart, later). 

   Giving Apollo an apologetic look, Valentine lightly shoved Costa off of his lap, ignoring the creature’s ensuing hiss and easily dodging a half-hearted swipe of its claws. “C’mon, that’s enough- go sit over there, naptime’s over.” Valentine muttered, waiting until the doppelgänger had settled down beside him, indignant, before continuing. 

   “To answer your question, Lo- no, I didn’t ask for you here so it could eat you. Don’t be absurd, Costa’s well fed-enough on Fission Chip’s staff…” Waving a hand, he laughed a little- when Apollo’s eyes only narrowed, once more flashing with anger, his voice slowly trailed off. 

   Apollo took in a deep breath through his nose, pointedly keeping his gaze locked on Valentine, and not the creature sitting next to him- he could see its irritation at being moved in the tense set of its shoulders and the curl of its lip, baring a hint of razor-sharp teeth. The look of it was just close enough to a man’s own indignation to be almost comical. 

   It’s pouting, he realized. That nightmare is pouting.

   “Look,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why am I here, then, Valentine? Did you really have me come all this way just to introduce me to… that thing?” 

   Valentine was silent for a long moment. He took a deep drag from his cigarette and leaned against the armrest, resting his head on one hand as he watched Apollo, some of the good humor melting away from his expression. The man was almost sorry to see it go, somewhere deep down. Valentine looked strange without a smile on his face. 

   “You know-“ the CEO began. “Sometimes people can just want to ‘hang out’, though I know you aren’t really familiar with that. Maybe I just like your company.” Heaving a sigh, he gestured idly to the creature sitting next to him.

   “Costa wasn’t originally supposed to be here tonight- something came up, and I wanted to introduce you two. That way it wouldn’t go after you if the two of you happened to cross paths elsewhere. It won’t hurt you, I promise- it’s not my… pet, not really, but we are working together.” 

   He paused- Apollo’s gaze was unfocused, the man still slightly lost at his earlier statement. People don’t enjoy my company, the raven-haired man thought. He told me he had important information. 

   “There’s something… you wanted to tell me?” Apollo offered after a moment, trying to keep the suspicion from his voice. When he saw Valentine’s face brighten, his eyes widened slightly, settling back into the couch properly. 

   “Oh, yeah! I forgot about that- I saw that man you mentioned, a while back.” 

   “Hmm?” Apollo lifted a brow, giving Valentine a sharp look. “You’ll have to be more specific, I-“ 

   “Yes, yes, you complain about a lot of people.” Valentine interrupted, waving a hand. Ignoring the other man’s irritated huff, he continued. “This was the big one, though- I saw your brother.”

   Sudden, furious anger spiked through Apollo, just as it always did at the mention of Artemis Fowl (the First). His lip curled, eyes narrowing at the thought of his brother talking to the man seated across from him, charming and smug. What was Tim even doing in the same social circles- he was supposed to be well out of the criminal way by now!

   Costa let out a quiet bark of a sound- it took Apollo a moment to realize it was meant to be a laugh. Glancing down, he saw that his hands had fisted in his lap, shaking, and he forced his fingers to stretch themselves back out, setting one on the armchair. From the corner of his eye, Apollo saw the creature’s face begin to shift and twist, and hurriedly glanced away, back to where Valentine was talking. 

   “So, I spoke to him for a minute- I wanted a connection, see, so I could get him for a meeting if I asked. He seemed like a pretty skittish fellow.”

   Apollo fought to keep his voice steady. “And why-” he gritted out, Valentine’s eyes widening at his tone. “Would you ever want to meet with him?”

   Valentine tilted his head, and suddenly, Apollo saw a wicked, wicked gleam flicker to life in his eyes, his smile viperine as he leaned forward, took a smoke and purred. 

   “Why, Lo, in case you wanted to come along!“

   Apollo froze. 

   “See,” Valentine muttered, voice dripping with something fake, plasticine. “I know it’s been so hard for you to speak with your dear brother, what with your bad history- surely, a referee would be helpful if you were to meet him and, ah, ‘vent your frustrations’? I’d hate for you to sit in his shadow for the rest of your life, my friend- your silhouette is far more striking.” 

   For a moment, Apollo didn’t speak, gaze fixed firmly on the floor between them as the other’s words processed, mulling over them. An opportunity. He was being offered an opportunity- at the thought of his hands around Tim’s neck, Apollo’s fingers twisted into fists. 

   “That’s… That’s awfully kind of you, Val.” He didn’t ask what the catch was- there was always a catch, but in the moment, he found that he didn’t care. 

   The man across from him brightened slightly at the nickname, crossing one leg over the other and pressing his hands together in a show of wicked glee. “But!” He grinned, all sharp teeth and smiles. “You didn’t let me finish! There’s something else too.” 

   “Hmm?” Apollo, distracted, tried to force himself back into the present. Shaking his head slightly, he glanced up, watching as Valentine stretched, smooth as a cat. 

   “See, here’s where Costa comes in.” The man snickered, reaching across to cup the creature’s chin in his hand- turning his gaze, Apollo stiffened at the sight of raven-dark hair, fire-pitted skin and his brother’s damned face stretched across Costa’s own. Eyes rolled back, jaw slightly slack in a gruesome mask of death, the creature chuckled, the sound hollow and rattling, and spoke.

   “I SaW hIM…”

   The voice was unlike anything Apollo had ever heard, half-hissed and rumbling and higher than he expected. Something in the back of it pulled at some dormant part of his mind, and the man paled slightly. 

   “We went to this gala, last night-“ Valentine chattered like a songbird, unbothered by the taloned hand that settled on his leg, almost possessively, Costa letting him take its head in his hands. “Costa wanted to try out a new skin, you see, some little techy for a bit of variety- and we saw your brother. And I got to talking a little bit about my idea, what I knew about him, the awful things you’ve said- and then I mentioned Fowl Manor.”

   Beside him, Costa stiffened, bristling- Apollo watched, wide-eyed, as its eyes narrowed and its jaw, his brother’s jaw, split, into a wide mouth bristling with fang-like teeth, packed so tightly you could barely see the glittering flesh beneath. The sound of tearing flesh, sinew and twisting, grinding bone filled the penthouse as Costa snarled, loud enough to rattle the windowpanes and pulse through Apollo’s ribcage like thunder. Its limbs twisted, stretched, bent at joints that shouldn’t have been, and for a moment, Apollo saw a flicker of a different creature shift down its body, Costa struggling to hold its shape from splitting down the middle in a mess of teeth, flesh, and sinew.

   Valentine waited until the creature paused, slowly stitching its twisted body back into that of before with a wet, clicking sound. “And that is why I brought him here,” he muttered, leaning away slightly. When he turned to Apollo, however, his expression melted back into one of sinister delight. “There’s something on your estate that Costa wants terribly, though neither it nor I really know what that is, exactly. But… perhaps that means it’s time to call in a visit? It’s been a while since you’ve been home, after all.”

   Apollo felt something cold begin to prickle at the very tips of his fingers- the feeling rose up through his body, setting his shoulders stiff before it reached his chest and sank its teeth straight into his heart. His mind filled with the thought of the loathes one creature stalking the Manor’s halls, tearing down any living thing it came across in its hunt. His sister in law. His nephew. The family’s loyal Butler. His brother. He felt no pity and he felt, oddly, no rage- just a cold, calculating curiosity at what gruesome mess this new creature could make of his old family home.

   There was another, awful splitting sound- Apollo looked up to see that Costa had planted its fingers in the crook of upper and lower jaw, slowly tearing the sight of his brother’s mouth wider and wider, a Glasgow’s smile stretching far beyond the cracked-open snap of the joint. Catching Apollo’s eye on it, the creature smirked, before twisting its features into a distorted mask of Artemis Fowl, terrified, eyes rolling back and head lolling in death.

   Violent, violent death. 

   Swallowing thickly, Apollo blinked visions of terror from his mind, a small, half-sneered smile slowly ghosting over his face. 

   “Maybe… maybe you’re right, Valentine. It’s about time I went home.”

#apollo fowl belongs to fowl-fox! i love the bastard man #this was funnn i enjoyed writing this quick little thing immensely #costa and valentine together are already a wicked pair but when you throw Apollo into the mix? match made in hell. #as for what costa could possibly want at fowl manor... i'll remind you that a certain someone has likely fled there... #costa au #oc: valentine #oc: costa #tw gore #tw body horror #fission’s fics

[dashofmonsters]

The Long Road- Pt. 9

Male Naga x F!Reader

You were expecting a lot worse when Enyn said that your father was fighting Isa, but this is just sad.

Mr. Gohar and an orc are holding your blabbering father back while he's crying and yelling obscene things at Isa who is being held back by Helena because Silas' mother is throwing what looks like a basket of herbs at him.

"Honestly it was much worse a few minutes ago, Isa had smashed a glass against his head and slapped him with her tail. I think she only shirked back a bit because dear Helena got in the middle," Luctux comments as he sips from a mug.

You look at your father and see a small trickle of blood running down the side of his face. Silas squeezes your hand as if to help ease the rising tension building up. It doesn't really help.

"Anything else?" Silas asks the tiefling who only shakes his head. "Right then. My dear, how would you like to handle this?"

For a moment you think about the most peaceful option into breaking this up but you know deep down that won't work. So you start rolling your sleeves back and you hand your staff off to Silas before trudging up to your father.

He's still blabbering on as you walk up to him but the second your fist connects with his cheek he and the entire room silences immediately. His eyes are wide and redden from crying and drinking, his mouth hangs open in shock and his body goes limp.

"No more excuses, no more secrets. Your brother is about to start a fucking war and you're over here acting like an ass because everything is crashing down on you. You don't get to act like this after everything you've kept from the family! You don't get to play the victim because you fucked up! Whatever happened all those years ago, you need to get over it because things are about to get a lot worse!" you yell at him.

His expression goes blank and he begins to fall but Mr. Gohar catches him and sits him on one of the benches.

You turn and notice that Isa and Helena have stilled. Silas' mother holds a bundle of herbs to her chest and gives you a nod, acknowledging that she's net.

"Mr. Gohar, can you see to it that he sobers up please," you smile up at the elderly drider before turning to your brother. "We're going to have a lot of upset people here tomorrow, you know what to do. I'll tell you more about it later... today."

Silas slithers further into the hall and you watch as his mother eyes the armor he's wearing.

"We need to talk, now," is all he says to her, his voice dangerously calm.

Isa straightens herself and sighs, "Yes, I suppose we do."

Peter escorts Helena over to your side as Silas and his mother move to go towards the sitting room you'd been using to study in. Once the door shuts you hear your brother make a clicking noise.

"So how many angry people are we talking about? Ten? Twenty?" Peter gives you an awkward grin.

You shrug, "I'll get a rough number tonight whenever Silas' uncles swing by."

"Anyon and Enyn?" one of the men who had been holding your father back asks.

You and Peter look over and see a group of men huddled together with tight lipped smiles.

"Yeah, we're still here," one of them, the tall elf with a long blond braid waves.

"Oh uh sorry, I just-"

"Don't mind Lir, he just don't like being ignored is all. I'm Gustav by the way, and that's Culann-" the tall broad orc points to a rather thin and lanky dryad who raises a spindly hand. "That's Thurl-" he gestures over to a four armed giant of a man with greyish skin and orc-like features. "And of course that there is Lir, aka sir bitches a lot."

Lir shoots Gustav the finger, "Very rich coming from the one who earned the oh so endearing nickname Cu-"

The entire group quickly jumps him.

"You mad? That's Zale's daughter! If he catches wind of any of us speaking like that in front of her...," Gustav warns Lir.

You roll your eyes, "Yeah no, I worked in a tavern in Melmar. I can damn well guarantee that whatever he was going to say, I've heard worse."

Lir sticks out his arms in defense before crossing them. Gustav just rolls his eyes and shakes his head, "Moving on, I take it there's a lot of things that need to be discussed. Where's uh... where's your mother? Surely she would-"

"Dead, she died giving birth to me," you reply.

Everyone stills and they look as if they'd been punched in the gut.

"No... he would have told us... we would have...," Culann drops to the nearest bench and cradles his head in his hands. The others sway and murmur amongst themselves until Gohar descends the stairs.

"He didn't want to say anything because... it's complicated. More complicated then just being dead," Gohar looks to you with a pained expression. "Your father is one of the rooms, tied up. Don't expect him to be coherent till tomorrow."

"You knew? You knew Silver was dead and you didn't say anything?!" Lir snaps at Gohar and you back up a little.

You start to realize that you're not the only one being effected by these secrets but so many others. Just how far and how long have things been unsaid?

"She's not... It's complicated and then there's the matter of Valen-"

"And where's he? Dead too? What else have you and Zale been hiding?" this time Thurl speaks up, both sets of arms crossed.

The men start barking at Gohar, questioning him and his loyalties to the rest of the crew. You feel Peter tug you back a tad and you look back to see concern and confusion clouding his face.

"Valen's not dead though, right? He went missing... that's what Silas told me... But mom... dad said she-" Peter clutches his head in pain suddenly, wincing as if someone just hit him as hard as they could.

You and Helena help hold him up as he groans in pain, the angry group of men quieting as they watch your brother writhe.

"Mom didn't... she-" Peter let's out a sharp cry and Gohar rushes to his side.

"Stop thinking about it lad, you're going to do more harm to yourself the more you try to figure it out," he tries to pry Peter's hands from his face but it only causes him to jerk back.

"No! No she's not... she was right there! She was-"

Suddenly Peter is crumpling but never hits the ground. Luctux catches him and holds him up.

"What did you do!?" you look to the tiefling who sighs heavily.

"I spared your poor brother a terrible pain. If what Mr. Gohar was insinuating I'm taking it that there's some sort of curse or spell causing some issues?" Luctux looks to the drider as he drags your brother over to the bench Culann is sitting on.

"Something like that. Isa knows more about the situation that this thing has put a lot of people under. But that can wait, right now we have bigger problems. Notus is back and out for blood," Gohar looks to the group and their eyes widen.

"Too many people are getting involved in this," Luctux adds. "Cults and thieves are being added to the ranks causing internal conflict. If things get too out of hand Notus will have the entirety of Malredra in the palm of his hand before a war can even begin."

You remember Charlie telling you about the cults and the one Selia was in. Did the stragglers join with your uncle? How many survived that fight?

"We still have some slim chance for hope right? Kat said that Singred had someone send his message to the king so all we have to do is see what sort of response we get?" you ask.

Luctux shakes his head, "Even if the king responds there's no telling how much good it'll do. Notus is after the royal family, that much we know for certain. The overall end game is much worse."

Silence fills the hall as everyone grasps what to say next. Gustav groans as he folds his arms close to his chest, his nose scrunching. Culann raises his head and rests his spindly hands on his knees.

"I had feared this day would come," Lir clicks and strides forward. "I knew, we all knew that this might happen." The elf pauses before you and puts a hand on your shoulder. "Most of us are old and tired and have seen war before. We know- Knew Notus before the fall of Aella. He loves his family or at least he did. Zale's bargain for peace was like a knife to the back for him so I can't say for certain how safe you and your siblings would be if he knows you exist."

Your gut wrenches and the sour taste of bile crawls up your throat. Part of you had already figured this out, that's why you were glad to see Peter and Helena here but hearing it just makes the whole thing seem more real.

"So what I'm hearing is that it doesn't matter if I'm my father's daughter or not, if I fight I'm still his enemy?" you look Lir dead on and the elf looks stunned.

"She's got a point, regardless of her relation if she fights she fights as one of us," Gohar nods his head.

It's your turn to be stunned as you look passed the elf, "Wait what do you mean?"

Mr. Gohar shrugs, "I can't speak for everyone else but if Notus' is stirring shit like this then it means I can take care of some unfinished business."

The others look at each other and nod and grimace. You look back up to Lir who nods to you as well, "Welcome to the crew of The Dread Maunder."

~~~~~~

You and the few crew members that had made their lives here in Gilli talk, really really talk. They give you more insight to your parents than you ever hoped to get. Mr. Gohar seems to want to steer some topics away but the others are too mad at him to listen and you're honestly thankful for it.

Everything they say hits hard but you take it all in. Lir eventually breaks the conversation for a very late lunch that you, Helena, and Culann make with whatever food survived Isa's wrath from the start of her fight with your father.

Silas and Isa eventually make their way out of the study, both red eyed and tear stained cheeks. Silas makes a beeline towards you as you and Helena take a few trays of food to the dining hall.

"We're about to eat... Peter is uh currently passed out and my dad is upstairs tied up. We can talk later if you'd like," you give him a reassuring smile.

"Ok..." he nods and follows you closely to the dining room that the group had settled into earlier.

Gustav is running his hands through his hair and shaking his head when the three of you enter. His eyes go to Silas for a moment then back to you, "Culann still in the kitchen?"

You nod, "He kept taking over so we just ended up standing there. Helena almost started a fist fight with him."

"Now that's a fight I'd pay to see," Lir snickers and Thurl chuckles.

Helena gives them both the finger after she sets down the trays.

"You must be Valen's boy," Gustav goes over to Silas and clasps his hand on his shoulder. "Good to meet ya lad, now come and sit down. You look like you could use a drink."

The cold sorrow on Silas' face sobers into something calmer and he gives the orc a tight lipped smile, "Thank you, but not right now... That and I'm not much of a fan of alcohol."

Gustav shrugs but ushers Silas over to the table all the same. You take a seat next to him after you set the trays down. You urge him to eat something even if it's just a few bites but he just stares at the food. You sigh to yourself and roll your eyes before tapping his shoulder. He leans down and you whisper, "Don't make me coddle you like a hatchling."

He leans into you and starts laughing, the group of men eyeing the situation with raised brows or knowing grins. Luctux whispers something to Lir who then stands up, "AH! I knew it! I called it! Pay up!"

Both you and Silas look at the elf with confusion.

Culann walks in with a large tray of meats and fish that is unusually ignored by the grumbling men. "What in the nine hells did I miss?"

"Lir won the bet," Gustav points to you and Silas.

The dryad looks at the both of you and grins, "Oh is that so?"

"Wait what bet?" Silas asks.

"The bet that if Silver had a daughter and Valen had a son that they'd get together," Lir crosses his arms in triumph.

"That's a uh... oddly specific bet," you raise a brow.

The group of men shake their heads.

"Valen and Silver were very close, if it weren't for Isa most of us thought those two would have wound up together. That and Silver was very much in love with Zale, to everyone's confusion. Because of that closeness we bet the odds on sons and daughters. Lir of course won. I'd thought Silver would have a son that would get with Valen's daughter, but the damn snake never had anymore kids," Thurl admits.

Silas inhales sharply and clears his throat, "Actually he did have a second clutch."

The room goes quiet and all eyes are on him.

"They're uh...it's-" he pauses and when he looks up you both notice Mr. Gohar standing up.

"They're stuck in the same loop aren't they?" the drider asks.

Everyone's face pales and the tension in the room makes it hard to breathe. Silas nods.

"Don't tell me that idiot went to those ruins? What the hells for?" Lir stands, his chair slamming down to the floor.

"Erinna was dying and the only cure was near the old temple. My mother had mentioned-"

"So Isa sends her husband off to his death?" Lir yells, his voice echoing in the room. "Mabdreger's Temple is an unholy death trap, everyone knows that! I don't care if it's home to a rare herb or godly ass cure, it's a cursed place!"

Mabdreger's Temple, you've only heard of that place a handful of times and no one had anything good to say about it. An ancient place where time doesn't play by the rules, where people have wondered in and never returned or where people walk out of and go mad the second the enter the real world. If Silas' father went there for a cure-

"Then Peter?," Helena whispers and looks to Gohar.

"What about Peter and his mother, how do they tie into this?" She asks.

"Peter and Zale are afflicted with the madness caused by the temple since they were in close proximity whenever Silver vanished. Silver herself is somewhere in the temple, where though, that's anyone's guess. The clutch is also somewhere at the temple as well," Gohar replies, his pale yellow eyes closing as he sinks down. His shoulders sag as if a great weight has been taken off his shoulders and you suppose after holding onto these secrets for years, it has.

"Well fuck," Thurl clicks. "And here I thought this day couldn't get anymore messed up."

Silas looks down at the table with wide eyes, "Oh it can and it will. My uncle still hasn't come by to hash things out with my mom."

Gustav who had been drinking ale spits it out and slams his hand on the table, "Anyon hashing things out with Isa?! The gods take me now! Culann, hide all the cutlery and heavy pans!"

The group starts up again, some still barking at Gohar while others talk about the upcoming fight of the in-laws. Helena tiptoes over to the quiet and observant Luctux who's nibbling on his pipe. He pulls up a seat for her before his eyes go over to you and Silas. He smiles and gestures towards the door as if he knows you're looking for a moment to escape.

You tug on Silas' hand as you stand up and he silently follows you out. It wasn't like you needed a breather from all the information that had been dumped on you or a second to put everything together, but you did need a moment not to think about it. So once you and Silas are further down the hall you tug him down and kiss him.

His moan of surprise against your lips is quickly drowned out by the sound of your heart beat in your ears. You feel him pick you up and deepen the kiss, the breathing between either of you becoming shorter with each kiss. And then you feel a tear.

"Silas?" you cup his face and he winces.

"It's nothing," he nuzzles against you, holding you tighter. "I'm just feeling a lot right now, but this, this helps. You help."

You hug him back, "You help me too. More than you'll ever know."

The both of you just stand there in each other's arms for a good bit before you start peeling away. Your hands linger in his and he brings them up to his lips and he kisses the tips over and over again till you're giggling.

"It's odd that all this stuff is finally getting aired out isn't it," he scrunches his nose.

"Better now then later," you shrug.

"What are we going to do now?" Silas asks.

"I'm going to train with Kat, get my abilities under control so that when it's time I can fight. I don't want to be a liability or left behind or a damsel in distress, that's not who I am," you look up to Silas who and he nods.

"I should probably do the same. I'm not that good at fighting, I'm subpar at best if I'm being honest. Luctux and Selia really carried the party when it came down to actual fights. I also need to expand my use of teleportation since it's pretty useless as is," he grimaces and crosses his arms.

"We both have a lot to work on I guess. It'll be a good distraction, at least for me," you chuckle and lean against the wall.

"Distraction?" Silas inches towards you but you look away and stare blankly out the window.

"Yeah because I really don't want to think about the fact that my mother might not actually be dead or that my uncle wants to kill my family or that my dad and brother are afflicted by some temple magic causing them to become insane and then there's my own personal garbage on top of all of that! I- I'd rather be doing something that can just shut it off for a while," Your eyes sting a bit but you don't dare let a tear slip down as you look back up at Silas. "I wanted the truth and this is what I get! One giant fucking mess... all I wanted to do was travel, get out of Melmar for a while, see the world... Not get involved in a war!"

Your voice echoes down the hall and you feel Silas close in on you, his head dipping down and resting atop your own, "There's nothing I can say right now that'll make any of this better, but maybe once everything is over..." he pauses and inhales sharply. "Once everything is over we can start over and really travel. Go out and see the world with nothing hanging over our heads. Just you, me and George."

A breathy laugh escapes your lips as you look up, "We'll be dragging that poor salamander around the world?"

"He'll love it, he'll get to eat sticks from every continent," Silas chuckles then dips down and kisses your forehead. "Let's just get through all this and then it'll just be us."

Your stomach flips and you feel your heart flutter and your cheeks heat up. His words helped sooth the heaviness you've been feeling with the past being aired out but it does something else to you. You reach up and pull his face down just enough as you stand on your tip toes to kiss him. You feel him smiling against your lips and you feel in that moment that everything will turn out alright.

"Just us, and George," you smile.

"Just us," Silas agrees and tries to kiss you again but a heavy knock to the front door has him bending back with a groan, you laugh.

"That's probably Anyon," you give him a nervous smile.

Silas eyes widen and he scrunches his nose, "Might as well get this over with."

Anyon thankfully had brought Enyn with him, both bundled up for the cold and being shadowed by your aunt Kat and Elli.

Elli and Kat glide past Silas' uncles and over to your side obviously trying to whisk you away. Silas smiles and tells you that he'll find you later. He takes his uncles to wherever his mother had slithered off to.

"Walk and talk kid," Kat grabs your arm and pulls you along and through the front door. Elli follows and keeps close to your other side.

"I've pulled back several of my informants in Brakkor and have planted a few on the coasts. My sister told me to keep them off of Notus' ships so I sent word out to cease the mission and head to the capitol instead. I'll have eyes on the king in a matter of days, just like you asked. It's going to be tricky to get any closer than scullery maids and stable hands but we have some time I'd like to think," Elli looks forward as she laces her arm around yours and plasters a fake smile on her face.

Your aunt Kat does the same and you feel as if something is wrong, very very wrong. You wish you had grabbed your staff before you left.

"Your sister was in Melmar when we got Peter, Helena and Zale. Apparently her and her husband have been keeping tabs on Notus' ships and provided us with valuable information about the fleet. She said she'll keep watching from a distance and will update us somehow if things change," Kat pulls in closer and makes a strange face that makes Elli laugh. Your aunt leans in even closer and whispers something to you that makes you pulls away from her.

"Act like we're teasing you... we're being watched...followed...They're close."

"It's not funny!" you feign being hurt.

"No but it's cute. So when's the wedding?" Elli grabs you and pinches your cheek.

Kat laughs but the uneasy feeling grows and grows till you feel it prickling the hairs on the back of your neck.

Whatever or whoever got closer, a lot closer.

"Come... come on guys, we're not in a relationship relationship… We're just feeling it out," you blabber, trying your best to act like you don't feel the cold sticky air all around you. You notice Elli and Kat writhe a little but they play it off as if they're about to tease you again.

Something lands on your shoulder with a shlop. You don't see it but you feel it, feel the bony slimy six...no seven fingered hand curl around your neck and chest. You still, your mouth hanging open as something sharp presses into the flesh of your neck and before it gets any deep you ignite.

Your entire body is fire and flames and the thing that had touched you screams. It's invisibility drops as it hits the cold and icy grounds squirming and clawing at the air. It's body looks like it was made of mud and sticks and tar. It's screaming voice reminds you of glass shattering.

"Golem," Kat grits her teeth, covering her ears.

Elli steps back a bit in horror, nearly tripping over her feet.

Rage fills you and the fire wraps itself tighter and tighter till you feel like you have to shed it off. The golem's claws reach for you and as you dodge it you stomp its leg and the flames explode off your body. The golem shrieks and writhes as it dries and cracks under the heat.

Kat and Elli jump back enough that they barely miss the fire lapping at their clothes. You hear your aunt shout out to you but you can't tell what she's saying over the roaring fire in your ears. You stomp down on the golem again and it shatters into chunks of dirt and charred branches and sticks. You watch as the glow in its eyes dim and die.

You look up and around to see Kat shielding Elli. You turn towards the front of the house and see Gustav wide eyed as he holds his arms out, stopping the others from going forward. Then you look at yourself reflected in the window, your body completely on fire, your hands have grown long hard black claws and the whites of your eyes are a dark red.

The world starts to spin and your body becomes heavy. You fall to your knees and the snow covered ground sizzles and steams.

Control, I need to control this... Whatever this is I need to be in control...

You do your best to calm your breathing but every time you look at your hands, your claws, you feel a disconnect.

Control yourself!

You hear people yelling and shouting and running about but you don't register any of it. You close your eyes disregarding the burning sensation as you try to reign in whatever you're feeling.

Control this, go back to normal... back to normal...

The prickling of ice and snow slowly seeps into your skin. You topple over into the snow, a lighter sizzle fizzles in your ears. You want to cry but your eyes are so dry and you're suddenly so tired. You hear several footsteps and slithering approaching you. There's talking, lots of it, but it all fades as your consciousness does as well.

~~~~~~~

You wake up to a pounding headache and an aching body. Your mouth feels dry and there's a warm wet cloth over your eyes. You try and reach up to move it but your hand is swatted away.

"Leave it be," Silas grinds out. "There's herbs in the water that'll help with the strain and dryness. Come on I'll help you sit up, you're probably thirsty."

Silas sits you up and you feel his tail holding you up. He brings a cup up to your lips but they feel glued together. You try to open them but your mouth is so dry. After a few tries he carefully rubs your lips with a balm and helps you slowly peel open your mouth.

"Mother said you'll be bedridden for the rest of tonight and all day tomorrow. Your aunt and grandmother said it's best for you to start training as soon as you're well. Your powers are apparently growing at a rapid rate and need immediate control," Silas explains as he lowers you back into bed.

You let out a heavy sigh then groan. You remember very little of what happened aside from igniting and passing out, there seems to be something missing in between but you're still too tired to even talk much.

"On another note, your fire show stopped my mother and uncle Anyon from clawing each other's eyes out so you kind of stopped that. Oh and Charlie's back from wherever he slid off to these last few days. Apparently he-"

You tug on Silas' hand that had been lying atop your own. You feel him shift a bit on the bed, his hair now tickling your cheek.

"How late is it?" you ask, your voice is scratchy from your raw throat.

"It's a little past midnight," he replies before sitting you up again and bringing another cup of water to your lips.

You drink and ask for another and another till your throat feels somewhat normal. He starts to lay you down again and as he does you reach up for him and wrap your arms around his neck, "Come to bed already. I can't imagine you resting while I've been like this."

Silas laughs, he actually laughs and giggles as you feel him move you into his arms, "I'm the son of a healer my dear and you've been my stubborn yet lovely patient for the past several hours."

"And thanks to you and your worrying I'm on the mend. Now sleep," you kiss his cheek and you feel him relax a bit.

It takes no time at all for the both of you to fall into a heavy sleep. That being said, it takes forever for Silas to slink out of bed the next morning. You feel a bit better having rested and the herbal eye wash restored your eyes to normal. Isa gave you the clear to sit up in bed but that's as much as you're allowed to do under her watch.

Silas, his old party members, and your father's old crew are called away to hold a meeting on information that Charlie had brought back. He promises to fill you in when he gets back but not being able to go makes you a bit uneasy.

Your aunt Kat however takes full advantage of your circumstance to start you on some control exercises but not without some interesting conversation.

"I've never been one to pry into the relationship of relatives but I think I'm going to make an exception for you," she starts, her signature feline-like grin starting to appear.

You inhale sharply as you try and focus on the one emotion you opted to focus on, as part of the exercise...contentment. Thinking back now you feel as if you should have chosen embarrassment since that's all you feel most of the time when Kat talks.

"So it's not a a relationship relationship yet? Just feeling things out?" she teases.

Suddenly you feel yourself reeling, your control easily slipping as a memory slides back into place.

"The golem... The golem! What happened-"

"Oh it's good and gone, you made sure of that," Kat replies then recaps the entire incident without so much as batting an eye. "You looked horrified when you started calming down. We had to cover you snow to get you to cool down so we could carry you inside. Oh and don't worry, your old man was still passed out so he's none the wiser about it."

"Why did I do it? I didn't want to, it just happened and then... I wasn't myself, I had claws and.. and my eyes. What happened to me?" you look down at your hands, your very much real and normal hands. The disconnection to your body coming back once more.

"Your element was reacting. More specifically, the spirit of your element was reacting. For fire it's usually things like dragons and phoenixes, but you got the most volatile of them all, an ifrit spirit. Your semi-transformation was a huge insight even if it scared the hells out of everyone at first. Now that we know you don't have an average spirit we'll be able to work with that for your training," Kat explains, cringing a little towards the end.

You give your aunt a blank stare, your eyes wide and you're fairly certain your mouth is just hanging open before you shout, "IFRIT?!?" as you point to yourself.

<Previous Pt.8 Pt.10>

#exophilia #naga #monster #monster x you #monster x reader #monster x human #monster x girl #monster boyfriend #naga boyfriend #slow burn #slow burn romance #strangers to friends #friends to lovers #oc #original character #Silas Locs #The long road #original story #writblr #monster lover #exophile #exophilia fic #exophilia fiction #monster romance #romance #male naga #dnd #dnd inspired

[starsarefire824]

the stairwell

Max moves through the crowd of students like salmon fighting to get upsteam towards the buses and parked cars. As she passes the cluster of bushes by the flagpole she ducks behind them and swipes her skateboard from underneath where it's hidden in the damp mulch. 

When she stands up, ready to head out into the parking lot, and debating if she wants to ride in the heat or just take the bus, Max is accosted by Mike Wheeler, almost running into his chest face first.

Luckily, she’s able to plant her feet and keep that from happening. She heaves a miffed sigh and glowers up at him, pinching the bridge of her nose to quell the urge to call him a stupid piece of shit. 

Begrudgingly choosing to be the better person today, Max throws her hands out and widens her eyes at him. Even if she is the better person on this Monday from Hell, she will very much make Wheeler feel her annoyance. With her one eye rendered basically useless, she squints harder at his hand when she notices he’s holding something up towards the sun with his long, spindly fingers, dark eyebrows raised up towards his hairline tentatively.

“What!” She demands, leaning in closer and frowning as the mystery object in his hand comes into focus. Keys . 

Mike's face falls into a peeved grimace. “You want a ride?” he asks with a surly sigh.

Max sucks in a breath, anger rising up in her chest that she desperately tries to stuff back down. It’s not his fault he can’t read a room , she thinks pitiably. It is Mike after all: oblivious with a capital O. It must be genetic or something. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the rest of the Party. They’re veering off diagonally to what she thinks is Lucas’s car. After a minute their little huddle separates. Will and El break away from the pod and head towards his car which sits over by the fields. 

Lucas waves affectionately to El, then continues his, what appears to be, very funny conversation with Dustin and Erica.

Max shoots daggers at their heads and hopes they feel them piercing their skulls. Then she eyes the bus, which would only take her back to her sad trailer with her sad, drunk mom shoving a sad T.V. dinner at her and then passing out on the couch. 

She bites her lip, brows going together as it comes to her attention that somehow Mike Wheeler is literally her best option right now. 

Dammit .

“Fine,” she concedes wearily and is surprised when Mike’s face sprouts into a rather relieved smile. It makes Max wonder if he’s come to the same conclusion as herself. The choice is either spending her days completely alone and miserable for the rest of the Summer with no one to talk to other than her mother or she can settle for one dumbass friend by association who makes her so angry sometimes she spends way too many minutes daydreaming of different ways to murder him.

Max raises an eyebrow at him, unable to keep from fixating on how doofy he looks towering over her: with his limbs that are as thin as a spiders, his stupid haircut he has tucked behind one of his ears, which stick out a little. It’s kinda wild today in the wet heat, all frizzy curls and his usual combed out bangs sticking to his forehead. He’s got a plain white undershirt on like he realized too late this morning that all his shirts were dirty and the same worn black jeans he wears almost everyday. He’s wearing Doc Martens, having somewhere at the beginning of the year starting favoring them over his Converse. They add an extra inch or two to his already gangly 6’ 1” frame, and Max does have to admit she likes the choice. But he also wears a silver chain at his belt loop that Eddie’s uncle gave him last year. It hooks to the same dumbass, velcro Ghostbusters wallet he’s had since 7th grade that he keeps in his back pocket.

But her face grows serious when Max realizes he’s smiling at her with relief and his eyes turn warm in the sunlight, resembling chocolate instead of their usual coal-black. It reminds her of a smile he gave her once as she whirled around him in their middle school gym years ago. She groans inwardly. Depressingly, he is the only human being on the planet right now that wants to talk to her. Soooo…..

Mike Wheeler it is. 

Without warning, she jumps up, ignoring the way her leg nags her not to, and snatches his keys out of his hand. She is already heading to the car before Mike can even turn around.

“I’m driving that stupid fancy car of yours though,” she says as she stomps away from him.

Max never gets to drive anything anymore. Billy's car sits perpetually broken in their driveway and she’s avoiding taking her license test again anyway because she’s afraid they’ll revoke it. God does she love driving. How can she be the Zoomer in the Party if she can’t actually zoom anywhere?! 

Then it immediately dawns on her that she doesn’t have a Party anymore. Max wraps her anger around whatever excruciating sadness is trying to claw out of her chest and pushes it away. 

Instead, she’s moving quickly, traipsing into the parking lot with her skateboard held loosely at her thigh and the sun burning her back. Her nose will be pink by the end of the day. She's sure of it.

“Max!” Mike calls behind her, his voice turning huffed and annoyed. She can feel his eye roll at the back of her head. 

“Let’s go Wheeler.” she grumbles to no one in particular. “Before I beat the shit out of you.” 

Excerpt from The Pact: Chapter 2. (click me to read!)

#madwheeler #byler #lumax #lumax + el #max x lucas x el #will x mike #mike x max #justmyname #writing snippet #the pact

[sulky-valkyrie]

@suck-tember Day 4: Piercing ~~~

"What would you ask of me?" The darkspawn asked.  Its voice was melodious and resonant.

Before Genevieve could answer, Duncan piped up.  "What's with all the metal?"

The creature turned, and somehow, even with the mask or whatever it was across its eyes, Duncan felt scrutinized.  Examined.  Dissected.  Like a butterfly pinned to a wall.  "Pardon?"  The accent was strange.  No real surprise since it wasn't exactly from any country, but it made Duncan wonder where the thing had learned to speak Trade. 

He pushed that musing aside in favor of the immediate question.  "The metal.  The rings.  On your face.  What's that all about?"

The Architect reached up to touch his face, like he really had no idea what Duncan was talking about.  Long spindly fingers slid up, tugging at the ring piercing his lip, or maybe his cheek, then tracing upwards along his jaw to touch the spikes? Thorns? The things that fanned out over his ear and up into a . . .maybe a hat?  It wasn't clear how much of his appearance was by choice or design. 

"I do not understand the question."

The junior Warden rolled his eyes.  "'S not hard to understand.  Why you got metal sticking in your face?"

"I was . . ." the Architect trailed off, frowning, stretching the skin against hard edges inside his face so tightly that Duncan wondered if it would split like rotting meat.  Or a ghoul.  He pointedly did not look at Bregan.  "I awoke like this.  I know nothing more."

Before he could ask anything else, Genevieve cut him off.  "This is pointless.  Are you coming with us or staying to die?"

He glanced at Fiona.  She was pressed against Maric and shivering, but her mouth was a thin line of anger.  "You can't trust that . . .thing," she hissed.

"I'm staying."

The tall darkspawn sighed and turned away.   "A pity."  As he headed town the hallway, glowing light bobbing by his shoulder, Bregan shook his head, then stumped after him.

Utha moved towards him, but Genevieve put a hand on her shoulder.  "No.  He's the enemy now." 

The light faded.  Hafter whined and pawed at Kell.  Maric tugged on the chains idly.  And Duncan rested his head on his arms, unable to stop thinking about lips pierced with a ring of metal.  Or the strangely musical voice that came from it. 

Years later, as he sat around a campfire with Maric's son, the song of the Calling jangling in his mind, Duncan hoped he'd see him again soon.

#sucktember2022 #day4 #dragon age #fanfic writing #prompt fills #sfw #dragon age the calling #duncan #architect #grey wardens

[breath-of-eternity]

Last: Chapter 6

Never in her life had Amaia been this close to one of the monsters. The spindly-looking forearms supporting its body were bigger around than she was, and its double-thumbed hand sunk into the ground. The middle finger actually tapping the dirt as if it was impatient. She had always assumed their skin was smooth, but she could see lines crisscrossing, almost like human skin. A sharp odor bit into her nose and she hissed out a gasp.

She shrunk behind the raft right as it swung its head towards the fallen tree she was hiding under. She could just make out the underside of its head, and the long slit above its mouth flared—nostrils, opening and closing as it tasted the air. If she couldn’t see its eyes, it couldn’t see her, but oh, the sweat dried onto her body would be pulling it ever closer to her.

Its sense of smell was keen, its eyesight impeccable. But the most important piece of lore passed through her people was how they could not hear. Make all the noise you wanted to during your escape, as long as you didn’t let it see you.

She wrapped her hands around the tent poles and to keep it steady while she nudged the lower half out with her foot. The monster was right up against the raft, and there was a thunk against the wood as it tested the strength of the wood keeping it from its meal.

Thunk-thunk-thunk.

Now the raft was wobbling. Amaia wriggled ass-first out of the hollow and scrunched against the branches of the tree. The raft toppled over, and the tree rocked as the monster shoved its head underneath.

Please, let it stay occupied.

Amaia got her feet under her and crouch-walked through the tree branches and into the surrounding brush. She came to another tree, one of the ones that stretched high into the sky and the lowest branches five times as high as her. Slowly, carefully, she pressed up against it and peeked out from behind the trunk.

A guttural growl escaped the monster. It was young, she thought, inexperienced, even out on its own for the first time. It did not realize the value of stealth.

It let out a sharp hiss that seemed to be frustration and stretched up, its hand planted on the fallen tree. Amaia dropped into the bushes, trying not to make the branches dance in a way that could not be caused by the gentle breeze. She caught a flash of white as it leapt over the tree and shoved the tent away, but then it jumped out of sight.

Amaia threw herself to the ground. Its footfalls scratched back and forth, and she glimpsed the skull-like end of its head pressed into the ground as it searched for her sent.

The wind picked up and Amaia leapt behind another tree, keeping it between her and the monster. She backed away, ignoring the crunching leaves and twigs approaching ever closer. Through the leaves, the monster bounced back and forth, white and gray and rage. When it snorted, she let out a strangled cry, because it was right on the other side of the tree she hid behind. It could follow every move she made.

Her back pressed against bark. She felt around, found it to be another tall tree, but thin. She slid around its curve and turned to the side, holding her breath in case exhaling made her stick out too much.

She sidled along, still focused on the big tree. Her heart thumped so loud she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to hear the monster, but in a flash it had leapt around the trunk and attacked the place she had been not thirty heartbeats earlier.

Its back would be to her. She’d have no other opportunity.

Amaia ran through the darkness, veering off to the left where she thought—or hoped—its attention would not be. A rigid branch slammed into her chest and she let out an “Oof!” and her hands reached for the tree it was attached to. Sappy bark, low branches but probably not very tall. She could climb to the top and the monster would jump up and tear her apart.

She ducked under and took off again. Her feet squelched in mud and she stopped to scoop up handfuls to rub over her body. As she listened, she heard the furious stomps of a monster tearing through the trees.

Run!

Her feet were going before her mind could note the tangle of brush reaching around her. Once more, all she could hear was the thumping of her heart. No, it was the monster. She darted to the side and a branch scraped over her head.

She jerked to a stop. It was still tearing through the forest behind her as it tracked her scent. Her mouth was as dry as the leaves underneath her, her lungs burned, a painful stitch sunk into her side.

She grabbed the branch and swung herself up. Back when she was little, before her naming ceremony even, she and her brother used to race to see who could climb the fastest. He was two summers older and undefeated, and had he still been around, she thought he would have been pleased to see her hook her legs around the branch and shimmy up the dry bark of the trunk.

The branch underneath her dipped under her weight. Amaia jumped to another and kept climbing. Her foot slipped and she closed her hands around sticky needles before she fell. She flailed for purchase, but none of the branches were wider than her foot. She wrapped her arms and legs around the trunk and squeezed as the monster furiously roared below her.

If it wasn’t tearing up the tree to get to her, it still didn’t know where she was. There was a thump and the tree next to her shook against the wind, then her own tree was hit. Her breath caught in her throat, but it moved on to another tree, and then it hit the first a few more times for good measure. Amaia moaned and tried not to move. When it saw her—and it would see her, sooner or later—it would leap up the tree, or perhaps knock it down so it could savage her broken form when she crashed into the ground.

She did not move, did not look down in case it spotted the whites of her eyes. It continued to hit the trees and stalk the area, smashing everything in its way. A branch of the nearest tree, without leaves and likely rotted, gave up its hold and crashed to the ground. The monster—

The branch. She could see the branch. With excruciating slowness, Amaia lifted her head. The sky was ashy blue, streaked with wispy clouds. If she could hold on, the sun would do what she could not and drive the creature away.

Even as the sky lightened, the monster continued to prowl below her, too young and stubborn to relinquish its prey. When its powerful back legs kicked the tree, Amaia felt it shift and there was a moment she was sure it would topple over and send her hurtling towards the ground. Bones would break, she might even be pinned, and she would lay there whimpering until it sniffed out her blood and finished her.

But the tree held, and the monster flung itself at another. Its nose may have been sharp, but not enough to track her through mud and the overpowering bite of pine. The tree may have saved her life.

Just a little longer. Just a little longer.

Her body throbbed with a hundred new cuts and bruises, and itched as the mud dried. She could not hope it would leave her, as every time it stomped off, it invariably returned and kicked the trees again. The sky was pale, the sun not yet over the horizon.

The monster kicked her tree again, and she felt herself tilt even further. The creature was older than a yearling, which would stick close to the adults even though they were close to full size. This one, a lone hunter, was probably two, or three if it wasn’t a birth-giver. She wasn’t sure how old they got, but most people agreed their maximum age was not more than ten. But no one could be certain. They all looked so similar from a distance, and no one dared get close enough to distinguish features.

The tree shook again, not like before, this one kept rumbling up the trunk. It was climbing.

Amaia screamed, frozen in place, even after there was a sharp crack and a thud as it fell to the ground. It had finally spotted her. The sun—the sun! The sky was pale white, and the monster let out a shriek that pierced through and made her clap her hands over her ears. It took off through the forest as the only enemy it could not tear to shreds shone down on it.

She wanted to stay there, clinging to the trunk, but it would come back for her that night and this time it would get up the tree. Her arms were shaking as she released her hold on the tree, the branches bending under her weight. Then she was standing on the ground and she shook her head, not remembering how she got there.

Everything seemed different in the daylight. Birds chirped overhead, lucky, flying creatures, and she could make out the deep gouges in the surrounding trees, the monster’s rage at being so close and unable to claim its prize.

The direction she came in eluded her. She shook her head, trying to clear away the fog, but it remained around her. It was not subtle about its pursuit, so she picked up its trail and followed it back the way it came. There was a point where the path split, one heading to the west, and one to the east, and she couldn’t remember which side of the river she’d been on. She’d been heading south, so…

East. That was it. She began sticking in mud, and she knew she was heading in the right direction. Ugh, she wanted to sleep, but there would be no time. She had to get as far away as possible before nightfall, and find a decent hiding place this time.

Her vision shimmered, but the tears didn’t fall.

When she got back to the fallen tree, she found the tent had been thrown into the brush and the sticks making up the raft were scuffed and even chewed. Her pouch was still wedged under the tree, just as empty as she left it, and she tipped up the waterskins. No luck, her tongue remained as dry as the leaves.

The tent was intact, though one of the poles was broken and slipping out of the strip holding it in place. She slipped the poles out and laid them on the raft, then folded the skins on top. The rope. Now she needed the rope. What happened to it?

Pain thudded in her head and she clapped her hands over her ears. It almost sounded like the monster returning for her. But it was daylight. Daylight.

You’ll be all right, Father said from within her mind. Get to the river. You’ll need to cross to the other side as soon as possible.

“I really wish you were here right now,” Amaia said.

She started walking.

The world seemed to fade. She could still make out the trees and bushes, but it all took on a gray quality, there but not there, much like the pain running up from her feet. She reached the cliffs again and turned to go alongside, not sure if the rushing she heard was the river below or the blood pounding through her ears.

I want my family, my people, she thought.

We aren’t there right now, Father said. You have to keep going if you want to find us.

Where are you?

No answer, of course. He wasn’t really there.

#fiction #post apocalyptic #post apocalyptic fiction #Last novel #writers on tumblr #writing #tw: pursuit #tw: fear