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mortauroi · 2 months

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Wood of Suicides

This particular short story takes place in 1768-9 after John and Gio left Vienna. Inspired by Die Leiden des jungen Werther and Dante’s Inferno.

Heavy tw for what it says in the title and some scary imagery.

“Gianni- Gio, this isn’t you!”

“This,” he moved his hands frantically around himself, “is what you made me, John!”

“But you’re far too young, Gio- I’m not entirely sure that would be wise!”

“Please don’t let my youth distance you from me. This year I completed two decades of life but I could’ve sworn it was a century.”

The cold metal of the pistol’s barrel had been the last thing he ever felt. He’d aimed right above his right eye; put a bullet through his skull. The chair was covered in a thick coat of dried blood, as all seemed to be.

He had shot himself while sitting there, then slid off onto the ground, where he agonized until death. The servants said he had been breathing when they found him. He died at midday.

His casket was carried away by strangers. John did not bear its weight with them.

He viewed it all from above, like God would, cold and distant, until he approached John’s pallid face like a bird diving from the sky, shone onto it a light so bright it should’ve blinded him; saw John’s cheeks being washed by a stream of tears, a current so endless he thought he might flood the world if it did not stop (a thought that then had felt perfectly logical – as had watching himself blow his own brains out – though that is the nature of dreams). He dabbed his eye with a tissue and the flow decreased, decreased, decreased… then suddenly John’s weeping ceased, and his face contorted into the most earnest expression of pain and resentment Gio had ever seen, utterly disfiguring him, less of a man now and more of a beast. His eyes were dark with an inhuman fury, a vision so horrifying Gio felt completely immobilized by fear. A blood curdling scream echoed inside his head— Amalia. He tried to scream, too, but from his mouth escaped no noise. He felt himself being suffocated— an old hand wrapped around his throat, the other yielding blood-covered axe, the peculiar crack of bones being broken, the smell of fear and despair in the air, of moldy straw and turpentine, of dirt being shoveled into a shallow grave…

Gio woke up, sweating profusely. His hand flew to his temple, where he’d half expected to find a gaping hole, dripping blood and brains. He turned over the side of the bed and emptied the contents of his stomach in his chamber pot. He tasted only bitter bile, but a relief like no other washed over him afterwards, and he was lulled into sleep again, completely exhausted.

“The human brain, signore,” said Dr. C—, putting away his tonics and devices neatly in their leather case, “has a keen instinct of self preservation that is unparalleled in nature. There are even those phlegmatic creatures that would not hesitate to stumble upon a corpse to achieve their ends!” he let out a small, self-conscious laugh, then fumbled with his hands, waving the words away: “Though let’s not focus on such terrible things, my boy.”

“Right on, doctor,” Gio answered unemphatically.

The doctor gave Gio a bitter tonic to drink “for the pain”, and told him his humor was too thin, that he needed to be more generous with his meals, and such, and such. He was right— though Gio refused to acknowledge it, he was worryingly thin. He’d always had a natural disposition for fatness; there was never a time in his life in which his figure was not soft around the edges, except for now. He saw, when the sheets covering the mirrors in his bedchamber fell as he was dressing, that his ribs were visible and his stomach was a hollow slope where it used to be a soft belly. The sight was unsettling, like when lush trees lose their vibrant foliage in winter and reveal their warped branches beneath. His skin was dry and flaked off where he touched it; his hair was dull and fell out in small chunks when he ran his hands through it.

Death to him at that state felt as natural as breathing, a sweet release to free him from that miserable existence. John and Amalia had said he was beautiful, once, and he almost believed them. Almost.

Then he remembered his dream, and the doctor’s words.

If the human brain seeks to preserve itself, why plant that sinful seed in the soil of his soul, why dangle in front of him the key to his freedom, a way to take back control, if that would mean to end its activity forever? Why show him, almost didactically, how to be rid of his body, and damn his immortal soul? He recalled the wood of suicides; the most pure form of sacrilege: to deny God’s gift of life, to take from His goodness and desecrate His image. He could already feel the harpies feeding on his tender leaves: his limbs, either from the cold or from anticipation, were stiff like wood.

He stumbled back into bed and waited patiently for death, expecting to see its hollow eyes peeking out of the window at any moment now.

“A cemetery, Gio? How mournful…”

“It remains a park too, John, and if it were not for the church’s prices of burial lots, there would be no graves being dug here,” Gio responded sharply.

“Alright, alright,” John sighed, and shook his head, “take my arm.”

Gio placed his hand on his friend’s arm, shooting a wave of pain through his bad arm. He winced, closing his eyes tight to try and ride that wave without fainting.

“Gio? Oh Christ, are you alright?” John asked exasperatedly. His face contorted into an expression of profound worry, making little ripples on his forehead. His lips were pressed tight and he looked around quickly from side to side, inspecting if there was something nearby that was dangerous for Gio to fall onto.

“I am fine,” Gio spoke, voice still a little too strained to be convincing.

John tried to smile, but his furrowed brows gave away his apprehension. “I am fine, John. Let us walk,” he repeated, more firm this time.

John walked slowly over the stone path, every now and then shooting a worried glance over Gio’s way whenever he faltered to step over a displaced cobblestone.

Gio’s health had improved, and though it was true his jackets still hung too loose on him and his pants had to be held up by a belt, he looked much better. His cheeks had regained their color, and his hair had stopped falling, and he could feel the new strands growing when running his fingers across his scalp. The thaw had come and Spring was on its heel, little blossoms adorning the trees, small flowers around the path with hoverflies and beetles jumping from one to the other like little fairies. Gio stopped abruptly beneath a horse chestnut tree. A songbird had made its nest in one of the tree’s branches, and there it sat peacefully over its eggs. Another songbird appeared, and perched on the edge of the nest. They tweeted at each other a bit (Gio stood there enthralled by that tiny conversation), until they shared a kiss and the latter songbird flew away. “He must’ve been feeding her,” Gio spoke, pointing up at the nest, “I heard that when one bird is brooding, the other will get food. Hence the kiss.”

“So he just comes and spits food into his wife’s mouth? How gallant.”

“Maybe you should do that to your Allegra, huh?”

“That’s disgusting. But it’s not beyond me.”

[Finis]

Written around February-April of 2023

#ioh: giovanni pignatelli #ioh: john harris #gio’s storyline

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voraciousvore · 6 months

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In the Belly of the Giant (28/39)

Chapter 28

Mr. Henderson had been deeply shaken after almost devouring Millie. His attitude towards food had changed radically. Whereas before the mere thought of eating made him sick, since he imagined chomping up humans with his food, now he was desperate to rid himself of his hunger, in order to protect Millie. He smashed through his mental inhibition to eating and wolfed down every food item in sight, to placate the voracious, growling beast of his stomach within.

Millie found his rapid onslaught of gluttony disquieting. She didn’t fully understand what was going on inside his head, but watching the enormous giant shovel into his mouth everything edible within his vicinity, especially when he had nearly eaten her, scared her a bit. She made sure to steer clear of his food, to prevent a repeat of the prior incident.

Still, Millie trusted Mr. Henderson not to eat her on purpose. If he had wanted to, he had his chance. Yet, he had spat her back out when he realized she was in his mouth. He had ample other opportunities as well, such as when she was unconscious in the alleyway, alone with him. Instead of gobbling her up, he took her to the hospital, despite being weak and famished enough to pass out himself. She wasn’t sure what had caused him to lose weight and go hungry in the first place, but she could plainly see he needed food. He was underweight and malnourished, just like her. She understood all too well how he must feel physically: She was hungry too. She ate heartily at his house, making sure to avoid his plate while he was eating, and felt much better. Her body was becoming stronger, her thoughts clearer. Her fainting fits had disappeared. She was happier than she had felt in an eternity.

She could see Mr. Henderson was feeling better from filling his belly, but still depressed about his missing daughter. “Mr. Henderson, why don’t we go out for a bit? Take a walk?” she suggested. She wanted to spend some time with him outside the house and get to know him better. She hoped being out in the sunlight and fresh air might cheer him up.

“Sure, that sounds nice,” Mr. Henderson agreed, laying his hand down for Millie to join him. To his relief, now that he wasn’t so hungry, his craving for human meat was fading. “Want to ride on my shoulder?”

“O-okay,” Millie replied hesitantly, clinging to his fingers as he lifted her up in his hand. He raised her up the remarkable distance to his shoulder and tucked her safely into his shirt collar so she wouldn’t fall off. Millie huddled up to his warm neck, amazed at the height. She felt like she was on top of a living mountain, hundreds of feet above the ground. The experience was nerve-wracking, but also exciting. She could feel the giant’s steady pulse in his neck. “I’m ready,” she informed him.

Mr. Henderson walked out the front door, into the bright sun. Millie was invigorated, being so high up, ready for adventure. She had never ridden on the shoulder of a giant before. His huge long strides made her rock back and forth, but she felt secure in her position.

“Would you like to go to the park?” Mr. Henderson asked her. “It’s very nice there.”

“That would be lovely,” Millie answered, snuggling up closer to his neck. “I’m content to go wherever you please. You’re driving, after all.” She giggled and rubbed her face on his soft skin. Mr. Henderson felt his cheeks grow hot, and hoped Millie didn’t notice him blushing. He hadn’t had a woman nuzzle his neck like that in a long time. It turned him on.

All at once, Mr. Henderson realized he was attracted to Millie. He hadn’t acknowledged his budding feelings when he was scared that he would eat her, but now that he was feeling like his old self again, he couldn’t deny it. And, as an older and more experienced man, he wasn’t naïve: It was obvious she was attracted to him too. In fact, she was even flirting with him.

He wasn’t sure how to proceed. His heart had been closed to love for a very long time, after his wife divorced him and shattered his world. He had only recently warmed up to the idea of finding another woman to call his own. He hadn’t dated or had sex in years. To complicate matters, he had never dated a human before either. Could he find love, and have his needs fulfilled, with a human woman, the same as he could a giantess?

His heart said yes, absolutely. If Joey and Eren could make it work, why couldn’t he? Though the thought embarrassed him, he wondered to himself how a human and a giant could have sex together. He hadn’t really considered the question before. He assumed human and giant couples must have intimate relations just like any other couple. But how? How could he pleasure a woman whose entire body was smaller than his sex organ? He chuckled to himself when he realized if he started dating Millie he might have to ask Joey, a younger guy, for advice!

“What’s so funny?” Millie asked him, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Oh, it’s nothing! Nothing at all!” Mr. Henderson choked, feeling his face turn red again. What was wrong with him? He was acting like a teenager, rather than a mature adult. Millie made him feel emotions he wasn’t used to. He admired her and felt inferior before her, despite her being so small. The situation was comical. “Here’s the park,” he added quickly, to change the subject.

“How beautiful,” Millie remarked with genuine amazement. She was used to looking up at everything from the ground: Seeing the land from a giant’s perspective really changed her view. The bright sun kissed the leaves on the trees, making them glimmer and glow like thousands of emeralds. Clumps of flowers of all different shapes and vibrant colors were scattered throughout the verdant grass and attracted giant butterflies and bumblebees. A lake, small by giant standards but vast to the human, sparkled in the sunlight. The park had sidewalks and benches for giants to use, as well as a playground for giant children and a pavilion.

When Millie lived out in the wild, she had to avoid nice outdoor places like this, due to her fear of being discovered or squashed underfoot by a giant. With Mr. Henderson, on the other hand, she felt much safer, even though there were giants around that she was wary of. Millie still had trouble feeling comfortable around any other giants besides Mr. Henderson.

The giant strolled along the sidewalk with Millie on his shoulder, enjoying the natural splendor and inhaling the fresh air into his lungs. Even though he was torn up inside about Eren, he was powerless to help her. For the time being, he had to accept what he could not control, appreciate the progress that they had made thus far, and place his faith in Joey. On the positive side, he was glad the children from the boarding school were safe. Their rescue was an additional weight off his chest. He tried to clear his mind and enjoy his day at the park with Millie.

After sauntering about for a little while, Mr. Henderson sat underneath the shade of a large oak tree, in a more secluded section of the park. He removed Millie from his collar and gently set her down on the grass so she could walk around and stretch her legs. She smiled up at him before exploring in the tall grass, climbing over the roots of the giant tree, and admiring the flowers that were taller than her. Mr. Henderson watched over her to make sure no harm befell her. He found her adorable, with her natural curiosity and playful energy. Having spent so much of her time in darkness and pain, she appreciated every little joy life had to offer.

He was grateful to have Millie in his life. She was her own little ray of sunshine. She had helped him so much with overcoming his depraved inner thoughts. He didn’t feel like so much of a freak now. Once he managed to get food inside his belly, he felt normal again, and stronger. The thought of food reminded him that he needed to eat more—anything to keep him from becoming hungry again.

“Would you like to get some ice cream?” he inquired.

Millie perked up. She couldn’t remember the last time she had ice cream. Frozen treats were not the sort of food she could scavenge from a dumpster, or that her evil giant captors would feed to her. “Yes, please!” she shouted enthusiastically. “Lead the way!” Mr. Henderson plucked her up out of the grass like a flower, making her giggle again. Her giddiness was infectious, and the giant found himself grinning ear to ear as he tucked her securely back into his collar. She hugged his neck as he stood up and wended his way to the ice cream parlor.

“What flavor do you want?” he questioned as he stood in front of the counter. “There’s strawberry, orange sherbet, mint chocolate chip, peanut butter and chocolate, vanilla…” Millie felt a bit overwhelmed as he rattled off all the available flavors. There were so many options! She could hardly remember what any of them tasted like.

“Um… how about… why don’t you choose?” she suggested.

Mr. Henderson pondered for a moment. “How about chocolate chip cookie dough? You can’t go wrong with that.”

Millie patted his neck encouragingly. “That sounds good!” Mr. Henderson ordered a cup of ice cream from the attendant, and requested a sample-size spoon as well for his human friend. He grabbed some napkins and went to one of the tables outside so they could sit in the warm sunshine. Millie climbed out of his collar, into the plush folds of his palm. He set her down onto the table and dipped the sample spoon into the ice cream, making sure to scoop up a sliver of cookie dough for her along with the vanilla goodness. Even though the little plastic spoon was so small, it was still to big for Millie to use as an eating utensil. He placed the mini scoop of ice cream in front of her so she could indulge in it and dug into the giant-sized cup with his own spoon.

“Oh my goodness, this is amazing!” Millie exclaimed as she licked her ice cream scoop. “I forgot how good ice cream tastes!”

Mr. Henderson smiled down at her as he inserted his spoon into his mouth. He was tempted to tell her that she tasted much better than any ice cream flavor, but he didn’t want to remind her that he nearly swallowed her alive, so he refrained. He licked the ice cream off his spoon and removed it from his mouth. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” was all he replied, digging the spoon back into his dessert.

Millie finished her mini scoop and gazed up at the giant with her sparkling blue eyes as he worked on his own portion. “Mr. Henderson, you have ice cream on your lip,” she informed him, pointing at her own lips on the side.

“Oh,” he said, and licked his lip where she was pointing. “Did I get it?”

“No, it’s right there,” she responded, pointing at the same spot. The giant grabbed a napkin and wiped the side of his mouth. Millie shook her head. “No, no… here, raise me up and I’ll get it for you.” He handed her the napkin and lifted her up to his lips. She paused, then tossed the napkin away. To his surprise, she pressed her body up to his mouth and sensually kissed him on his upper lip. His face burned as a hot wave of blush crested on his cheeks. Goodness, he was worse than Joey with all his blushing!

“There, I got it,” she whispered, laying against his lips and caressing the light stubble above his upper lip. Mr. Henderson blinked several times, stunned. Her feathery touch made his heart flutter like a bird. After taking a moment to recover, he cupped her in his hands and kissed her back, pressing his plump, warm lips tenderly against her delicate body. She melted like butter under his touch. His lips were sensitive enough to feel her heart beating hard in her chest.

He didn’t realize until he finished kissing her that he had pushed her down into his hand with the force of his steamy passion. She was lying flat on her back in his palm, her legs curled, a dreamy look on her flushed face.

“W-wow…” was all she managed to stammer out. “That was… incredible…”

Mr. Henderson recognized his worries earlier were misguided. He would have no trouble pleasuring her at all.

Chapter 29

Chapter 1

#giant/tiny #g/t #giant #tiny #g/t writing #giant tiny #size difference #g/t fluff #in the belly of the giant #gt fluff #gt story #g/t story #gt writing #gentle giant #giant men

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chubbyheroesworthyheroes · 4 years

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Linus didn’t care much for history, that was more of Lloyd’s interest. Sure, as a kid it had been fun to listen to the stories of the heroes of old, and even now, he held a great pride for what those who came before had accomplished against the dragons, but it wasn’t something he found overly interesting. The Shrine of Seals was an important place in Bern, though few actually knew where it was anymore. It lay hidden among the mountains and woods, and the only reason he was here now, was to make a last stand and take revenge against the Lycian lords that were headed for the legendary weapons here.

“Legendary my ass…,” he scoffed, looking around the torch lit room with irritation. There wasn’t much here at all; just a large, stone room with minimal decoration to it. If there was really something mystical or even mildly amazing here, he sure wasn’t seeing it.

Growling in annoyance, the Mad Dog rolled his eyes and decided to hunker down in the large stone chair at the center of the room. It didn’t matter if there was something here or not, the only thing he was here for was the pathetic lives of the lordlings that were going to walk right into his ambush. Idly tapping the cross guard of his sword against the arm of the stone throne he was sitting in, Linus quickly grew bored and further frustrated at having to wait around. Sitting still wasn’t really in his forte, so it didn’t take long for him to jump back to his feet and start pacing around the chamber.

As he was making a haphazard circuit around the room, a small section of the floor seemed to depress under his boot, a clicking noise alerting him just a bit too as the entrance to the shrine suddenly closed with a great groaning of stone. The chamber was thrown into darkness for a moment, the torchlight flickering -- threatening to snuff out -- before burning steady again. It only took a moment for his vision to adjust, a string of colorful words leaving his mouth as Linus immediately attempted to budge the door open again -- and, when that failed, tried to repeat what he’d done to close the blasted thing in the first place.

“Fucking hell, really?!” Linus blusters futilely, slamming a fist against the unmoving stone door as he realized that he was well and truly stuck until his men figured out how to reopen the shrine. Huffing out an angered breath, he gives the door a good kick for being a bastard -- it didn’t help at all, but it made him feel a tiny bit better to vent his frustrations.

Time seems to drip by slowly as he waits, the crackle of the torches eventually wearing down Linus’ anger enough to make him feel almost dozy after so long of staring at the blank walls.

The unnatural sound of something squelching about in the shadows of the room jolts Linus out of the near-sleep he’d fallen into, scrambling to his feet from where he’d been sitting with his back to the stone door. Brown eyes skimmed the dark edges of the room for anything, not seeing anything at first, until something finally inches its way into the dim light of the torches. And, really, he has no idea what to call this thing other than a something -- it has no real form, the creature simply moving along the floor in a vaguely slug-like, blobby form of...whatever the hell it was made up of. It had a pastel red color to it, its form more or less translucent despite the pigment.

Well...at least this was something interesting.

“You’re a weird li’l fucker, ain’tcha?” Linus sneered, unsheathing his sword and poking the tip into at the creature that seemed to be aimlessly inching around. To his surprise, it didn’t really react; the tip of his blade sunk into the thing with hardly any resistance, and all the creature did was wobble to a stop. “Huh…,” he shrugged, figuring that poking at it wouldn’t be all that fun for very long, moving to pull his sword out of the gelatinous blob.

Only, Linus found that the little red creature was holding onto the metal with a death grip. Scowling and readjusting his hold, Linus tugged firmly at his weapon, but all this managed to accomplish was a brief suction-like noise as the blob started to move up the blade.

“What the…,” Linus breathed out in trepidation, trying several more times to free his sword of the goop that was clinging to it and steadily moving up its length with every attempt he made.

The red goo lurched forward suddenly, and Linus shuddered at the feel of it sliming over his hand. It wasn’t sticky per se, as it looked like it would feel sticky on contact, but it was cool and slick in a still intensely unpleasant way. Just like with his sword, any attempts to pull his hand out of the red goop were only met with frustration; the slime, however, seemed more energized as soon as it made contact with his skin instead of the stone of the floor or the metal of his blade, and quickly abandoned gripping onto the weapon in favor of enveloping more of Linus’ arm.

It was at this point that Linus saw the full scope of the creature he’d been poking at. What he’d initially seen was just a small section of it -- as the wet suction of the slime claimed more of his arm, the rest of the creature made itself visible from the shadows. It was massive, and the fact that he hadn’t been able to see or hear the damn thing for its size had panic creeping into the back of Linus’ mind as he struggled to get out of the thing’s hold.

“Okay, you big fucker, let go and maybe I won’t tear you apart!” Linus threatened, trying to wrench his arm free or even shift some of the mass off with his free hand. It did little good, as his fingers couldn’t get a grip on the slick surface. But, fear spiking and turning into rage, Linus continued to fight against its hold.

This didn’t deter the slime in the least, his struggling only seeming to interest the beast more than anything else as more of it started to slip over and around him. Furiously trying to gain some sort of purchase, Linus’ boots squished into more of the red goo, making it harder for him to even move now. A shiver of disgust ran down his spine as he felt the cool goo drip onto his abs and inch over his abdomen with a weirdly sentient touch -- as if it was curiously investigating him. “I swear, you go anywhere you ain’t supposed to and I’ll--!” his enraged shouting was swiftly cut off by a tendril of slime jamming its way into his open mouth. The force of it had reaction tears stinging his eyes, Linus gagging as the viscous substance filled his mouth and then forced its way down his throat. There was a long, drawn out moment of full blown panic as Linus found he couldn’t breathe; he struggled desperately, clawing and kicking at the creature as his vision swam from lack of air. Eventually, the creature seemed to understand that he needed to breathe, and eased up enough so that he could pull in ragged lungfuls of air through his nose.

Saints, he’d nearly blacked out there...And while the damned thing was learning to let him breathe before it pumped more of itself into his mouth, it was still rather eagerly streamlining itself down his throat. Working his jaw a bit, Linus let out a muffled groan of frustration when he couldn’t bite through it; soft though it felt and appeared, it was like trying to chew through a thick ball of leather. It did, however, have the odd perk of being ridiculously sweet; the bright flavor of cherries leaving a syrupy taste in his mouth.

Unable to really move or get himself free of the slime, Linus could do little more than seethe and watch as more and more of the room filled with the creature. It seemed pleased that he’d stopped fighting as much, generously pumping more cherry flavored goo into him at a pace that didn’t suffocate him. Except, a new issue cropped up when the inevitable feeling of fullness started to hit Linus.

He squirmed a bit, wincing at the stuffed feeling as his stomach churned, trying to deal with what was being shoveled into it. He huffed out an aggravated, pained breath through his nose, ramping up his struggling again when it felt like he was going to be sick from the sheer volume of goop it was trying to get in him. The red goo seemed to pause for a moment, its previous coolness melting away into a pleasant warmth. Relief struck Linus almost instantly at this, the overfull feeling in his stomach fading away as the warmth sunk in.

Relaxing a bit, Linus simply let it pick up where it left off for a while, until he felt something off…

Glancing down, his brain seemed to hit a wall when he saw the belt strapped over his chest digging in to his belly. The six pack abs he’d had just moments ago were completely gone, a soft, chubby belly having replaced it after whatever the creature had done. To make more room, it must have absorbed itself into his body -- but this wasn’t really something the human body was meant to ingest, and this was the result…

A muffled protest was all Linus could get out as the slime ramped up the pace. Every time he felt like he was going to burst from the pressure in his stomach, the creature would repeat the process of absorbing what it had pumped into him, which resulted in more weight getting added to the Mad Dog’s once muscular frame.

Frustration and indignation had slowly faded into a food drunk sort of resignation as time ticked by in the semi dark of the shrine. It was monotonous and repetitive, and the feeling of being filled to the bursting point with warm slime made it difficult to actually stay awake -- similar to the effect of eating a big meal and then needing to sleep it off. Linus’ attention narrowed down to a fine point of swallowing down the increasingly large bursts of goop that the creature was pumping into his mouth. Eyes glazed over, he barely even processes the way the slime is expanding his body anymore.

The belt that had been digging into him early on was reaching its limits; Linus’ gut growing steadily rounder as the slime fed him, the thick leather indenting harshly into the flesh the more doughy his middle got. Eventually, it was too much, and the buckle snapped, freeing his engorged belly to bounce forward and into his lap. He felt some of the slime creature squish between the underside of his gut and his chunky thighs, a muffled noise escaping him as the creature seemed to caress at his expanding bulk -- at least, as much as a boneless mass of goo could manage. It was a weird feeling, the suction of the slime against the sensitive skin of his belly, but it wasn’t altogether awful.

But, it wasn’t just his middle that had taken a hard hit; Linus’ entire frame was chubbing up just as nicely thanks to the slime.

Even without the red goo cushioning him, his ass had plumped up enough to be plenty comfortable against the hard stone beneath him. His trousers were quite tight at this point, the material struggling against his fat ass and thunder thighs. His face, while never angular, had clearly rounded out; chubby cheeks flushed red and a double chin softening his jawline. Broad shoulders and a strong back were now padded generously with pudge, smoothing out muscles into soft valleys of fat. His pecs were still holding somewhat firm, round and pert as they sat atop the growing mass of his gut. Likewise, his arms had maintained some definition, the added weight serving to mostly make them look more bulky as they stressed the sleeves of his shirt and jacket. The juicy swell of thick lovehandles rounded out his figure, not so much fighting his belly for space as much as merging with it to create a deliciously supple tire of flesh around his middle and sides.

The room glistens a shimmery red from the slime creature practically filling it up with its behemoth size, the light from the torches reflecting off of its form as it oozes around Linus. If it has an end at all, he can’t see it. All he knows is that it hasn’t let up an ounce with its feeding, a constant, thick stream of the stuff bulging out Linus’ cheeks like a fat chipmunk that had hit the jackpot of nuts; pumping its own astounding mass down into his gurgling, fattening stomach.

Time had practically ground to a stop for Linus, everything in the world seeming to have narrowed down to just encompass the massive creature as it blimped him up with itself.

He couldn’t even stifle the groan that was building up in him if he wanted to, a slick, slime covered hand clumsily smacking against the bulge of his belly as he dazedly rubbed at the swollen mass. Despite constantly and continuously being stuffed to the brim, it was incredibly soft and squishy. Chubby fingers sunk into the soft flesh with ease, and if he pressed down hard enough at certain points, Linus could feel the slime in his gut roiling about as it filled him up. Outside of the time it took to absorb itself into him -- which took mere seconds -- the creature didn’t appear to be stopping for anything, and as his body continued to fatten up and swell out with all the added weight, Linus dumbly thought it was a good thing this place wasn’t horribly small.

#male weight gain #male wg #slime inflation #chubby!linus #*y e e t s*#finally got this out of my system #first time really actually sitting down & writing slime stuff & it was fun

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starkercrossedlovers · 5 years

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Deal with the Devil

Did I tell you guys about the Crossroads Demon starker au I’ve been thinking a lot about?

No?

Well...here you go...

—————

Peter has heard the rumors about this place told in hushed whispers and hidden behind hands, as though simply speaking the words will call attention to the creature that supposedly can be found here.

Dirt cakes beneath his nails as he digs, heedless of the rocks and detritus that scrape his skin and draw blood. It mats under his nails and on his skin as he digs, cold sweat on the back of his neck.

The battered tin lunchbox with Captain America’s shield on it serves as his container for his offering—a photograph of the summoner, graveyard dirt, a black cat bone, and yarrow, placed exactly at the center of a crossroads.

He shovels the dirt back over the box and climbs to his feet, wiping his filth hands off on his jeans, the back of his hand swiping over his mouth, smearing grime and rusty blood over his lips.

He’s not sure how long it’s supposed to take, but as the minutes tick by his despair grows; it was all just rumor and superstition. With a broken sob, he turns away, thin shoulders curling forward.

“Now now, it can’t be all that bad.”

Peter whirls and goes wide eyed at the man standing before him. He’s barely taller than Peter but much more muscular, broad shouldered and narrow hipped with inky black hair that’s tousled artfully. He cuts an impressive figure in a trim black suit, the shirt and vest underneath as black as his eyes, the only color in the whole thing the strip of crimson silk around his neck.

At his side are two great beasts-and Peter hesitates to call them dogs because he’s never seen a dog this big. They stand tall and proud, barrel chested and black as night and have the oddest crimson eyes Peter has ever seen.

Swallowing hard, he shifts uneasily on his feet, gaze caught by the man (demon?) across from him. The man smirks, slow and wry, “Come now, tell me what brings you here,” he encourages, voice low and smoky like the cigars his uncle used to enjoy.

Peter hesitates and then nods, hands fisting at the hem of his T-shirt, “I-I’ve heard you help people,” he murmurs softly.

He’s heard the stories; The man down the street who had cancer and came back from the crossroads cured. The woman unable to bear children, blessed with twins. The unsolved murder, suddenly solved when the man responsible walked into the police station and confessed.

He’s heard the stories but he’s not sure he believes.

The man nods and scratches the head of one of the beasts, “If you have something of value to trade,” he agrees.

Peter’s heard about this too—the trade.

A soul, usually, as the stories go.

“I, I don’t have money,” he stammers and the man laughs, and Peter swears he hears thunder in it, low and rumbling.

“Oh pretty boy, I don’t need money,” the man says with a laugh. He snaps his fingers and a wad of cash three inches thick appears in his hand, “Your petty human paper means nothing to me,” he says with a grin.

Peter gasps as it goes up in flames, a hundred thousand dollars, smoldering in his palm, like it’s nothing. Enough money to feed he and his aunt, pay the mortgage, hire a lawyer...gone.

The man’s eyes sharpen, “Now tell me what you want or let me go, I don’t like being summoned without making a deal.”

Peter swallows hard and nods, “I...I need you to help me. My uncle was murdered and they can’t find his killers.”

The man tilts his head and studies Peter, “And what? You want me to find them? Punish them?” he asks. “Perhaps flay them alive or torture them with their darkest nightmares?” he suggests with a smirk.

Peter shakes his head vehemently, gut roiling, “No! No, I want them to be arrested and tried for their crimes!” he says, voice trembling.

For the first time the man shifts, and Peter flinches, stepping back as he closes the gap between them inhuamnely fast. A hand closes around his jaw and his gaze is forced up to meet the ebony one above him.

Up this close he can smell sulfur and brimstone and smoke, and the hand on his jaw is inhumanely hot. The man smirks, “Don’t lie to me boy, I can see inside your heart,” he hisses softly, “tell me the truth.”

Peter is trapped, the demon at his front and the hounds behind him now, their presence threatening and hot, reeking of ichor and misery. He whimpers and trembles in the grasp of the demon—because that’s what he is, despite Peter’s best attempts at ignorance.

“I want them punished,” he admits, voice cracking with anger that’s been repressed for far too long. “I want them to in agony for what they did to my uncle and aunt when they broke into our home.” He’s panting now, sweat on his chest, burning with righteous fury, “I want them to pay.”

The man grins in delight, “Finally, the truth,” he murmurs, voice sibilant and low, mouth twisted as though he’s tasting some arcane delight. “And what price are you willing to pay?” he asks hungrily, gaze sweeping Peter’s lean form.

Peter trembles in his grip. He doesn’t know what to offer; he has nothing—no power or prestige, no money.

“My soul?” he asks weakly, dread threading through him.

The man smirks, all teeth, and then nods. “Do you know how we seal the bond?” he asks softly, tongue swiping over his bottom lip.

Peter shakes his head, swallowing hard, “Blood?” he hazards.

The man rolls his head in a lazy nod, “Most of the others do, yes,” he agrees, hand sliding from Peter’s jaw to his throat, grip firm but not too tight. “I however, would like something, a little different from you,” he murmurs, hot breath on Peter’s skin as he leans in, lips scant breaths from Peter’s.

His eyes are dark and glowing, like embers in the night, and Peter trembles, fear and anticipation leaving him breathless.

A kiss, he thinks, a kiss won’t be so bad, if that’s what the demon wants.

A small price to pay for revenge.

The demon laughs, as though he’s heard Peter’s thoughts and shakes his head, “No sweet boy, I want your body, your flesh, your seed,” he croons, running a hand down Peter’s chest to cup his cock, grinning when he finds Peter half hard.

Peter gasps and frantically tries to think of something else he can offer, but he knows he has nothing else to give.

He nods, and damns himself for eternity.

A breath later a hot mouth is against his, tongue sweeping and demanding, and the taste of whiskey and smoke fills his mouth. Pleasure suffuses his veins, makes him weak and pliant and the next thing he knows he’s being pushed up against the stop sign at the side of the road, the demon’s hand beneath his shirt.

Nails take over his skin and he hisses, mewls and arches into the touch, gasping as the demon rubs his palm against Peter’s cock. He’s aching and dripping, grinding into the touch desperately, mewling softly, please please please.

The demon laughs and then suddenly he’s naked, shivering in the October night air. The man flips him and pushes him forward till he’s bent in half, face flushed as his ass pushes backward.

“Mmm, I haven’t seen anything as lovely as this in a millennia,” the demon murmurs, trailing a finger down Peter’s back, sliding down to press against the tight furl of his hole, the pressure and heat of his skin ripping a cry from Peter’s throat.

The demon chuckles and withdraws, “Has anyone taken you little one?” he asks, voice soft and silky like whiskey. Peter shakes his head, thighs quivering as he waits for something else to happen.

“Mmm, then I’ll be sure to make it pleasurable for you,” the man murmurs, and Peter gasps because his fingers are back, slick and hot, rubbing at his hole while his free hand slides up the sweaty planes of Peter’s chest to toy with his nipples.

Peter yelps when they’re twisted, a burning pleasure blooming under his skin with each touch, the ache as relentless as the demon’s hands on his body. His cock jerks against his belly, drooling and dripping, splatters of it falling to the dusty earth below.

The fingers at his hole push in and Peter shouts, seeing stars as he’s stretched, the burn of it leaving him shaking and sobbing. Lips press to his neck and a low voice murmurs in his ear, “Good boy, you’re so good Peter.”

Peter keens as they’re spread, sinking deeper, and then they touch something inside him that has his cock jolting and his voice cracking as he shouts again.

Low laughter fills his ears, “That’s it pretty, scream for me.”

Peter can’t hold back his sobs of pleasure as the demon attacks his prostate relentlessly, crooning filthy words of praise in his ear.

“Oh sweet thing, I haven’t seen anything as beautiful as you since the Fall.”

“That’s it dear boy, take it.”

A tongue flicks at his cheeks, swiping up the salt of his tears. “Delicious,” the demon croons.

A hand tangles in his curls and he can’t help the gasp he lets out when his head is pulled back, spine arching. He pushes back against the fingers inside him, desperate for more, begging through bitten red lips for anything the demon will give him.

The fingers inside him disappear and he keens at the loss, whining and arching back, flushing when the demon laughs at his desperation. He hears the jangle of a belt and the rasp of a zipper and then something hard and hot is pressing against his hole, something huge and thick and he barely has time to look back before his head is being wrenched back around.

He’s seen it though—the demon’s cock. It’s flushed crimson and dripping at the tip, thick veins pulsing under the skin and Peter has no idea how it’s going to fit because it’s easily as thick as his forearm and nearly as long.

When the demon pushes in Peter shouts, spots dancing in his vision as he’s speared open, sobbing as it keeps going, hard and thick and impossibly hot.

It feels like his insides are being pushed aside, the bruising weight of it too much and he rocks onto his toes trying to get away, only to be pulled back and forced further down the length of the demon’s cock.

When it’s fully inside him he’s delirious, trembling and whining, incoherent with something that’s too sharp to be pleasure and too soft to be pain. The demon licks the sweat from his neck and laughs softly, “Sweet boy, it’s been an age since I had one as soft as you,” he whispers, and then rolls his hips back, the drag of his cock punishing and sweet on Peter’s prostate.

Peter’s knuckles are white where he clings to the metal of the signpost, palms aching at the sharp bite of the edges, and he cries out when the demon’s cock tugs at his hole, very nearly gone from inside him and yet still too much there.

“Hold on sweet thing,” the demon says, laughter in his voice, and then plunges in, Peter’s scream echoing into the night.

It’s too much; too hot, too thick, but his own body betrays him—his cock drools and he moans louder with each thrust, relishing in the burn of too much inside him.

He’s had a finger or two inside himself before but nothing like this—each thrust of the demon’s cock is like a punch to his gut, a punishing ache in his prostate that has him weeping, gasping for air through a raw, dry throat.

“That’s it little one, take it.”

The demon growls and thrusts harder, teeth latching to Peter’s delicate flushed skin, marking him outside as he reaches around to fist Peter’s cock, the stimulation sharp and furious and he wails, tears on his cheeks as he comes.

The demon howls and bites down, copper in the air and on his tongue as he fucks into Peter relentlessly, the drag of his cock on Peter’s too sensitive insides like agony, but he pushes back into it nonetheless, panting like a bitch in heat as the demon milks his cock dry.

The sudden spurt of heat inside him is followed by the growl of something in a tongue that’s twisted and sounds like hell itself as the demon marks him on the inside—his, for all eternity.

When the demon finally stills, Peter is shaking so hard he’d fall over were it not for the demon’s hands around his waist. Lips press to the nape of his neck and one of the hands on his hip slides up to cup his throat, rough fingers pushing at his jaw till it’s tilted and the lips find his once more.

He tastes blood on the demon’s lips—his blood— and he thinks dizzily that they’ve sealed this bond with blood, tears, sweat and cum and that perhaps it’s not just his soul he’s lost here tonight, but his mind and body too.

Peter gasps and winces when the demon withdraws, clinging to the signpost as he rearranges himself and then suddenly finds himself dressed and standing back in the center of the road.

His legs quiver and his body aches, but he finds that the throb is dulled—the demon’s work, perhaps?

The man in question looks no less impeccable as he did when he first showed up—as though nothing has happened. The great beasts are back at his side, drooling acid and breathing in great bellows that stir the dust.

The demon smirks and an odd, unearthly glow—like hellfire, Peter thinks giddily—appears behind his eyes.

“I’ll see you again, Peter Parker.”

“Wait!”

Peter lunges forward and then stumbles when the hounds growl menacingly. The man laughs, patting their heads, “Hush Dum-e, U, let the pretty boy alone,” he croons, smirking at Peter.

“Well?” he drawls, sardonic and lazy.

“I uh, what if I need you again?” Peter asks, wondering what the hell is wrong with him as he does. If this isn’t some hallucination, then he’s sold his soul, and been fucked within an inch of his life by a demon who he shouldn’t want to see ever again.

The demon quirks his head and then smirks, “If you need me, call me,” he murmurs, flicking his fingers—Peter gasps as a smooth piece of card stock appears in his palm.

The lettering is black and raised—Tony Stark, Knight of Hell.

When Peter looks up the man—Tony—is gone.

—————

The next morning there’s a story in the news about two men who stumbled into the police station, covered in wounds, screaming about hell hounds and a man with glowing eyes torturing them in the night.

The confess to the murder of Ben Parker and the assault of May Parker and are thrown in jail where their screams each night haunt the hallways—just as they are haunted by their crimes, each and every night.

Peter calls Tony’s name one night soon after and gets on his knees to thank the demon.

Vengance has never tasted so sweet.

———-

@starkerforlife6969 @starkerchemistry @sluttystarker @xarles56 @darker-soft-starker @peterparkers7evilexes @peterparkersapunkassbitch @peterparkerisaslut-x @peterr-parrkerr @sbiderslut @dollmeatpie (whose writing this was inspired by) @starkeroverload @thefaultinourstarker @cagestark @starkeris-infinity-worried @im-a-goner-foryou

#starker #peter parker x tony stark #tony stark #peter x tony #peter parker #nff #crossroads demon!tony #dark!peter #spooky starker #tw: dubious consent #tw: dubcon #tw: murder #tw: assault #starcrossedtalks

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unicyclehippo · 4 years

Note

Prompt if you want it, polymorphed cat/dog!Jester ends up spending the entire hour being fussed over by Beau who has no idea it’s Jester

It had been going really well, you know? And she’s done it dozens of times over now, changing her form or someone else’s so there’s really no trouble to it at all. Or. There shouldn’t have been any trouble to it at all.

Here’s the thing though: she’d been thinking first of all about changing into a big dog, like the ones they’d seen around town, specifically like the one she had seen wandering around on the outskirts of the market, and she had been thinking about that one in particular because it had had a lovely black coat at one point, she could tell because of the snout where it was sleek and black like their sweet and so, so ugly moorbounders, but it had rolled at some point or another in the grey yellow dust here in the city of beasts and so the rest of the coat was now this kind of coarse grey brown, but still a very handsome dog and also very clever because she had seen it wait for the shopkeeper to be distracted before it ran away with a whole fish! And that’s the dog she had been thinking about specifically, only it was just as she was casting it that she kind of wondered if maybe stealth was the thing, you know? And if maybe she should pick a smaller creature, something that would be good at being sneaky, like a cat! Except what if they ate cats around here? She didn’t want to make presumptions or anything but it was called the city of beasts for a reason (probably because of the beasts, let’s be real) and she hasn’t seen any cats around the place except for Frumpkin and as lovely of a cat as he is, he doesn’t count. And so she had gotten stuck, you see, between being a big dog and being a stealthy cat, and when the spell had taken effect she ended up as...this.

She’s not entirely sure what it is. Kind of a dog, kind of a cat. Her fur is mostly a sandy grey, but if she crosses her eyes she can see her about is black (though these eyeballs don’t enjoy crossing as much as her usual eyes) and that her paws are black up to the knees. Of which is has four. That’s a good sign—she’s definitely a creature of some kind. Looking into the smoky, somewhat reflective surface of the brilliant obviously Kryn building she has hidden beside, Jester can see that her form is squat and strong, with the big shoulders of a dog and a narrow cat-like face. Her tail is long and fluffy but the rest of her fur is short and sleek, besides a few tufts on the elbows. Jester spins to gnaw at one of them that dares to tickle and as she does, she can see—not in the poor reflection of the building but with her own eyes—that her fur is spotted and slashed with dark markings, like the patterns on Frumpkin’s coat and she has to laugh, realising that somehow she—or the Traveller—had turned her into some mix of a dog and a cat. The laugh surprises her, the way it feels in a creatures body—in a dog she might have whined, a cat might’ve flicked their tail, but this creature laughs a snickering high pitched laugh that seems oddly familiar, but Jester can’t quite place it.

It seems smart enough of a creature, luckily, and Jester trots out from the alley to find her friends. It takes no small amount of time—not because she has lost them but because the world is extraordinary like this. It unfolds around her in a hundred new and novel and wonderful scents—ones she might ordinarily have dismissed as bad, like the almost rotting fish and the manure shovelled from the stalls with buzzing flies working around them, aren’t bad. They’re interesting, complicated, and Jester has to keep reminding herself that she’s looking for something.

Right! Her friends!

Had they wandered off? Or had she?

She lopes back to the same alley, sure now that she had disappeared out the opposite end she had entered, and revels in the power in this creature—the lean, stocky form hosts powerful muscles that bunch and push and quickly she has eaten up the distance back to the alley and dashed through it—right into the legs of a human, who smells of sweat and dried blood, old meat and leather, of dry bark and dust.

‘Whoa, holy shit! Oh fuck—it’s—Fjord, pull me away, oh fuck,’

‘It’s not attacking you, relax.’

The human—Beau, of course—is accompanied by Fjord. He smells—and Jester knows this because she goes up to him and sniffs, entranced by everything her nose is telling her—he smells of the sea, still, despite their not having been back for weeks. His scent is heavy with brine, washing away most of any other scent that might stick to him, and she finds herself growling, not out of anger but of frustration. She wants to know!

‘Whoa, okay, nice doggy,’ Fjord yelps.

‘Ha! She hates you, Fjord, suck it!’

‘Ha ha, yes, very funny—now help me.’

‘Okay, okay, yeesh.’ Something soft wafts down before Jester’s face, grey and floaty, and she snaps out at it with interest. Before she can snag it, it is pulled below her and wraps neatly around her collar before rushing closed. A leash, Jester thinks, and as this creature, she rolls over and starts trying to gnaw at the fabric. Beau stands above her, a look of clear amusement on her face. ‘Aw, look at you, you’re cute! Hardly vicious at all, are ya?’ She rubs at the creatures belly with a foot, pulls it back with a bark of a laugh when the creature bites playfully. ‘You must have an owner or something. We could look for them while we’re looking for Jes,’ she says to Fjord, who agrees. ‘Also, she’s not a dog. She’s a hyena.’

‘Huh?’

‘She’s a hyena. They’re cool. Kinda weird, but cool. Matriarchal societies. Super powerful olfactory systems. Strong bite. Probably one of the coolest creatures that exist.’

Jester scrambles to her feet. She can feel her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, which has opened into a big grin—it must be scary, coming from a toothy beast like a hyena, but Beau doesn’t seem scared. Properly wary, for sure, but fascinated. Carefully, she reaches out a hand toward her and when Jester allows her to put a hand on her square, furred head, she hears a low,

‘Whoa. Very cool,’ from the other girl.

‘Looks like we won’t be looking for the owner, huh?’

‘I mean. It’d be super wrong. To steal someone’s hyena. When we’re trying to help out the place,’ Beau says, haltingly, clearly eager to take the creature and book it. ‘But if we just happen not to find the owner...’

‘Great. A dying weasel and a terrifying hyena. Perfect.’

Fjord and Beau make a great team. Jester already knew that, but to see them in action without having to take part is something special. Fjord butters up a few people. Threatens a few more with a surprisingly cold and terrifyingly genial demeanour.

Beau cracks her knuckles a few times, or backs him up in such a way that it’s like watching a good play, seeing them bounce increasingly horrifying threats between one another before lobbing one them at the person they’re interrogating.

Jester likes to think having a hyena sat at the humans feet helps too.

It’s getting near to the end of her hour, she’s pretty sure, when a fur-clad individual—half elven, maybe, with the wine dark skin of a dark elf—approaches with a toothy smile.

‘Ah,’ they sigh, ‘I see you found my majestic creature. How good of you to bring them back to me.’

The half-elf smells of dozens of creatures, and of some sharp chemical scent that makes Jester want to growl and back up, hackles raised.

‘Weird. Doesn’t look like she wants to go with you.’

‘It matters little if the creature wants to go with me,’ they say, in the way someone might speak to a child. If that person were, you know, a villain. ‘I bought them, they are mine.’

‘Got some papers to prove that?’ Fjord asks, accent a deeply fake drawl once more. ‘Friend,’ he tacks on, unfriendly like.

‘Papers, of course. I have them in my shop, around the corner. If you come with me, we can sort this out with no drama necessary.’

It’s obvious it’s rubbing Fjord the wrong way, and Beau has a hand buried into the scruff of the hyena’s neck possessively, suspicion and upset rolling off her scent in waves.

It could all be fixed, Jester knows, by transforming back into herself—but doing so even in a private area of the market would risk too many eyes on them, could be taken as a threat.

She growls, deep in her throat. Feels Beau scratch reassuringly at her beck, behind one of her ears. Jester flicks that ear and hunches down, starts to step slowly back toward an alley. Beau’s hand tightens and then loosens and when Jester pulls mightily away, she sees with some amazement and pride that Beau pretends rather remarkably to be a clown and an annoyance, pretending very well to fall when Jester runs, and then tripping the fur-coated poacher, as Jester guesses him to be.

The sounds of an argument rise up loud behind her as she sprints away, and the magic strips from her bit by bit until she is an ordinary tiefling once more. For an instant, the world seems a little dull—her hearing dulled, her sense of smell a fraction of what it had been—and then she sees the blue sky and, returning to the street, the blue of Beau’s coat, and the green and purple in Fjord’s clothes, and is happy to realise she can see colours again.

With the hyena missing and nowhere to be found, Jester and Fjord are able to diffuse the argument—though none of them like the way the poacher looks at Beau like they’d like to take her in the hyena’s place, a human rarity—and they hurry her back to the quarters awarded them by the lady of Asarius, meeting with their friends who had returned not but ten minutes earlier. Fjord tells them all about their largely unproductive afternoon, ending with a fight over the hyena—

‘It was Jester,’ Beau tells him.

‘What?’

‘The hyena. It was Jester, right?’ She crooks a grin over to her. ‘I mean, the hyena disappears and Jester finds us a hot second later? Too much of a coincidence.’

Under Fjord’s surprised attention, Jester plucks at her skirts and curtsies, fakes a blush. ‘Oh well, you’re welcome, yes, it was me,’

‘Holy shit!’

‘I know, right?’

‘Holy cow!’

‘Yah. Yeah. My thoughts exactly,’ Beau and Fjord say to one another, and Jester can’t help but grin under the attention. If she notices—and she does—that Beau’s eyes remain focused on her for long after Fjord’s attention is recalled, she doesn’t make a comment on it just yet.

‘You did great today,’ Beau tells her later, as they climb the stairs to their room.

‘I mean,’ Jester laughs. ‘I got lost at first.’

‘Yeah but it all worked out so... you did great.’

‘I guess so! Sucks we couldn’t find out who is doing that plot thing the author totally is interested in.’

‘Yeah, we’ll definitely pick that up tomorrow so it’ll be fine, though.’

‘Right.’ Jester nods. ‘They can smell super good,’ she tells Beau. ‘Hyenas. I could smell, like, everything, it was pre-tty wild.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Mhm.’

‘That’s fuckin’ dope.’

‘I can turn you into one, if you want. I have one left.’

Beau’s eyes light up, but she shakes her head. ‘Another time. Maybe tomorrow, if we’re still hanging around the city. That’d be cool. Quick question, hopefully not weird—more of a comment than a question I guess but it wasn’t, like, weird that I was patting you, was it? Because I don’t want. To be weird.’

‘I mean, you’re being pretty weird now,’ Jester points out, because Beau isn’t quite stuttering but it sounds like she’s punching out the words through sheer force of will.

‘Okay, okay, fair,’

‘But I don’t mind. And didn’t mind.’

‘Okay.’

‘You’re still being weird, Beau,’

‘Yeah, it’s just because you’re like, super powerful and cool and brilliant and hyena’s are one of my favourite animals. Not that you knew that. It was like, one of those things where we had to research for hours in the archives when I was first starting out and I hated it but I read a whole compendium of animals from start to finish and now I’m rambling and,’

‘Is it because you’re covering for the fact that you called me cool and brilliant?’ Jester teases, and she isn’t sure what to do with herself when Beau grimaces and her cheeks burn with sudden colour. She doesn’t lie, or deny it. Which is. So so weird. And cool. And great, maybe. ‘I think you’re super powerful too,’ she blurts out, because she’s supposed to say something, and when Beau waves that away Jester frowns. ‘Really! And cool and so smart and you have beautiful hair and, and—‘

Oh Traveller, she remembers saying those words before, and the fluttering in her belly isn’t new but it is a lot more noticeable now. Beau laughs, smiles. Winks. Blows her a kiss, like she had that last time, obviously remembering the same moment. Jester flushes. Stammers for a second before pulling the door to their room open—stopping. Pushing the door to their room open.

#cr tag #tagging my stories #prompt fill

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hotcaramelmachiatto · 5 years

Text

Sanji x Reader

Imagine: Sanji has been earning for something, but he can't seem to figure out what. Until you walk into the kitchen.

Pairing: Sanji x Fem! Reader

Warning: SINFULLLLLL! NSFW!! Oral (female receiving. Cum kink??? If you look super close?? Its a dirty birdy.

It was rather late at night, the soft rocking of the Thousand Sunny lulling everyone else to a peaceful sleep- well aside from Usopp who was squirming around and mumbling something about wanting more food- but Sanji stood in the kitchen hunched over.

He stared intensely at the ingredients on the kitchen counter with a gaze that would make one wonder how they weren’t minced from the daggers he shot at them. For days, now, he has been craving something. For what, he couldn’t quite place his finger on it.

Something sweet, something thick, something to quench his thirst and full hiim up like no other. Something never ending. Something. Something. Something-

“Sanji?” Your voice pulled him out of his trance. You were standing there in a pair of f/c shorts and a matching tank top. No bra.

“Y/n-swan? What are you doing up?” He stood up straight and reached into his pocket in search of a cigarette, fully prepared to break his rule of no smoking in the kitchen if it meant you didn’t get to see him so rattled, but unfortunately for him, he had none left. You rubbed your e/c eyes and shrugged.

“I got thirsty and I wanted something to drink. What about you? You look a little shaken up. Did you have a nightmare?” Your voice was like honeyed nectar. You were just being your kind, sweet self, no hidden motives, no lustful hints, just your sweet self. But the joke would be on him if he thought for even a moment that he didn’t want you.

You smelled so good, even from the distance you had between yourselves. If you were being as honest as him, he looked absolutely ravenous. There was a droplet of sweat on his temple, sliding down his pale skin, his eyes were darkened with a lust you’ve never seen before.

A beast.

That’s almost what he looked like. All from a simple question.

“No, Y/n-swan. I’m fine,” he gave her a small smile before walking to the fridge. “Would you like anything in particular? I could make you a smoothie or something, if you like, Y/n-swan.”

The way your name rolled of his tongue almost had you begging.

Begging?

For what, exactly?

“Some milk will be fine, thank you, Sanji.” You leaned against the counter, knowing he only stuck his face in the fridge for you so he could focus on something other than you. It was no use. You were tempting him. You had to be.

The way your h/l locks looked so perfect all matted up from your pillow, how your hips swayed when you walked, the way your breasts were just demanding for his eyes to stay completely locked on them. Of course, he was way too much of a gentleman to stare, except he couldn’t help but look out of the corner of his eye.

You were too delicious. He knew you were watching him too, the way he moved around the kitchen with practiced hands. He was tempting you as well. A part of him, the part that was clinging to the last thread of sanity keeping him from pouncing on her, hoped that she took her glass of milk and vacated the room before that shred of sanity and reason slipped from his grasp.

He handed you the glass of milk, your fingers brushing over each other so softly but there was so much electricity in just that simple little bit of contact. Said simple little bit of contact was more satisfying than anything Sanji had experienced in a while. He knew you felt it as well when you let out a small gasp and bit your plump lip. Suddenly, all he wanted was a taste.

Your lips looked so smooth and pink and warm and- God there were so many adjectives he could use but none of them satisfied him.

He watched you intently, unable to even hide his gaze, as you brought that glass to your lips and sucked down the liquid. Even though you were drinking something now, your throat was almost dry and you could feel his gaze on you as you drank.

‘How can drinking a glass of milk look so sexy?’

Sanji stepped closer. It was maddening, this thirst, this hunger, this lust for something to satiate him. It drove every bit of reason out of his body. He needed you. You needed him, he could see it.

The way your eyes traveled over him, and not just in this moment; when he pranced around the kitchen, when he and the green Morimo argued, when he shamelessly flirted with you, when he brought you little treats during the day, your eyes always followed after him whether you knew it or not.

One thing you did know, however, was that you needed him. Now.

Sanji wasted no time pulling you to his chest and pressing your lips to him.

Lord, even the softest of silks couldn’t compare to the velvet that was your lips. You were sweet, almost sickeningly so, and your mouth was cold from the milk despite your heated skin. His tongue sweeped against your lower lip and you complied, looping your arms around his neck. He lifted you off the floor and distributed you on the kitchen counter, his soft tongue mingling with yours. He tasted like cigarettes and sweets. It was intoxicating.

A deep, animalistic groan left his throat as his hands wandered over the thin fabric of your tank top, afraid to go much further than this without verbal consent.

You let out a desperate moan and pulled him in closer, looping your arms around his neck. He groaned while his hands slipped under your shirt to slide across your smooth skin before pulling away softly.

“Tell me you want this, Y/n-swan. My sweet, I know you want this but I need to hear you say it.” He pleaded like a starved man pleading for food, desperate, hungry, frantic. Your breaths mingled in the centimeters of space between your plush lips and his slightly chapped ones. The look in his eyes held so much intensity you couldn’t look away even if someone walked in on you two now. His hands were gripping you as if you would disappear on him if he let go.

“Yes, Sanji, please.” You hardly got those words out before he was on you again, kissing, nipping, sucking on your lips like they were a fine delicacy. He groaned and pressed you closer for dear life.

Closer. Closer. Closer. More.

He pulled your tank top off with a great urgency, unable to hold himself back. He wanted to unwrap you like a present just for him and devour you like the beast he had inside. It was almost too much for him to handle.

You smell, your moans, your touch it was driving him wild. He brought your nipple into his mouth, earning a sweet moan from your mouth. He could only imagine how it would feel to be inside that hot, wet cavern of yours but today wasn’t about that. It was about satisfying both of you, your desire and his hunger.

He sucked on your nipple while one hand toyed with your other breast, rolling the nipple around with his fingers. You squeaked and ran your fingers through his silky blonde hair. You arched your body into his touch, your movements almost matching how starved Sanji’s were.

Gentle touches of an unexplored area became more frantic movements with practiced hands. Sanji trailed his mouth down, leaving heated open mouthed kisses in his wake, to your belly button and down even further. He looked up at your flushed face once again to ask permission. As heated and frenzied as he was, he wasn’t going to do anything without your allowing him to do so.

You nodded, bringing your hands to your face to hide your embarrassment.

“Beautiful.” He breathed out before slipping your shorts off in one fluid motion. Your smell was so sickeningly sweet he was almost drunk off it.

He licked a long, soft strip from your slit all the way to that small bundle of nerves at the top. He attacked your button relentlessly and groaned. He could drown now in your sweet slick and die a happy man, indulging in this sweet nectarous treat.

This is what he needed.

This could satisfy him for hours, just as he planned to satisfy you for hours.

You were to devilishyly sweet and the obscene noises your core and mouth were making only tempted him further to create more noises from you. Sanji smoothly dipped in and out of your slit, shoveling more juices into his mouth like he had never tasted anything so delicious.

“God, I could eat you up in one bite.” He purred before sucking on that candied button, making you arch your trembling body into him further.

His mouth and hands, stroking your thighs, holding your hips down at the angle he wanted them, had you absolutely writhing beneath his hold, trembling as his vice grip kept you still. The coil in your stomach tightened and loosened with every teasing flick of his tongue. From your position you could see his head bob with the ravenous movements of his hot muscle working you closer and closer.

Sanji’s hands dragged you ever closer to him, his tongue working in and out of your luscious velvet folds while his nose was at the perfect spot to give stimulations to your clit, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more. You were like a bowl of honey and sugar and milk and he needed this sugar high. He needed to ravage you like a wild beast eating meat for the first time in years. He was getting drunk off your taste and smell alone and your voice only egged him on.

Your loud moans and pleading wails turned to soft whimpers and squeaks when you brought your hand to your mouth. That ruthless tongue of his flicked over your trapped clit, your toes curling at the throbbing pulsating ache in the pit of your stomach. You were so so close. You gripped his hair in desperation, trying your damnedest to grind against him for more but he held you down, the slow torture giving him his favorite reaction out of you.

“Sanji~” You voice was a few octaves higher and your face was contorted in pleasure, your frame shaking and your expression utterly wrecked. The way his name rolled off your tongue was like angels singing in his ears.

You were so close. You needed it. More. Please. Give it. Take. Please. More. Closer.

He was addicted.

The sweet sugary scent, the savoury thickness of your rich slick had him in a haze. He slurped you up like a fine cuisine. You tasted so damn sweet, so warm, so scrumtuous, so fucking good.

“Please, Sanji, please, so close, closer, more, Sanji- I-I’m gonna, need it, so close- Sanji, please, please!” You were pleading for mercy and God had you not had enough? It was such torture. But such a sweet torture.

Sanji heard you loud and clear. He buried his tongue as deep as he could while this thumb painted swirls in your button, making you squirm and shake and convulse around him in the midst of an absolutely explosive orgasm.

Sanji worked you through it, his tongue tightly clenched in the vice grip of your sweet, soft walls while his thumb worked out down softly. You were nothing but a panting puddle of sweet honeyed milk Sanji was quickly cleaning up for you.

As your mind started to return you could finally see what Sanji was reduced to himself. He had your juices dripping from his chin, on his cheeks, clinging to hair hair, and dripping off his nose. He licked you up carefully, knowing how sensitive your bud was after such an intense climax. He licked his sinful lips with an even more sinful tongue. You now knew from experience.

“You’re delicious, Y/n. I could have you for every meal of the day.” He purred softly and licked his thumb.

“I can bet you taste just as good.” You countered, an evil smirk playing its way onto your lips. Sanji stopped and gasped when you stroked him with the palm of your hand. You weren’t the only one completely affected by this session of yours. “Its my turn to taste you.”

#sanji x reader #one piece sanji #black leg sanji #sanji #one piece x reader #one piece #sanji x fem!reader

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ecotone99 · 4 years

Text

[FN] Molla the moleman

Molla dug her claws through the soft earth with the enthusiasm of a cat sitting in rain. Miserable yet unavoidable. Then, her claw pierced through the wall and into a cavern. Her eyes burned at the sudden light and she shielded herself.

She blinked. The den mother’s stories said that light from the solar would immediately burst her into flames, yet she felt fine. Instead of burning, she felt hot. Clearly, they exaggerated the tales for the runts.

Curious, she plowed down the rest of the wall and into the cavern. A large ray of light bore down into the cave and onto a pile of rocks. In a mess of rubble, a man groaned. He wore a strange orange vest with silver stripes that threatened to blind Molla. She got on all fours and scurried over to the edge of the solar spot.

The heat was unbearable. He must have been in significant pain. Molla tested the light, sticking her elbow into the light. The exposed pale skin immediately blistered. He must be from a different den, she thought. Her kind didn’t have the resilience to solar that he had. But she couldn’t just leave him.

Pulling the rope and hook off her back, she set to work. The first several tosses she aimed for the rocks that covered him. They rolled off the pile, clinking loudly against the other stones. Molla flinched, inspecting her surroundings for any sign of Burrowers. The large eyeless moleman-eating worms hunted by sound. Her heart thumped in her chest as she heard the faint sound of slimy skin inching through dirt.

She froze in fear. A beast emerged from behind a corner. Raising its black needle head, searching for sound. The man groaned again. Molla was helpless to do more than watch. The burrower poked its head towards him, then its snout touched the light. It roared in pain, jerking its head back, retreating to where it had came from. Molla’s breath rushed out of her chest and she fell to her knees.

Even the apex predator of Subterra couldn’t handle the light of Sol. Then what was this man? With the rocks cleared, she landed the hook under the man’s shoulder and pulled him back into the safety of darkness. His skin was red, but that was the least of Molla’s intrigues. His hands were so short and skinny, and he bound his tiny feet with black leather, tied tight by strings. She tilted her head, confused. What kind of moleman could bear to have their feet bound like this? How did he dig with those pathetic claws?

Her finger snapped through the strings of the leather and she found his feet, which were even stranger. They were tiny, clawless, and missing a joint. No, the joint was there. It was just tiny and useless. His den left this poor mutant to die because of his repulsive disfigurements.

Molla huffed, the cruelty of some dens was too much. She nodded and wrapped the man around the chest with her rope and hook, deciding she’d take him back to her den. Hopefully, the den mother wouldn’t be too upset about it. But Molla refused to abandon him just because he looked a little silly.

~~~

The long tunnel of Molla’s making led to the den. She ignored the grunting and groaning of the man dragging behind her. There was nothing she could do until she got him somewhere safe. It would be foolish to stop in the tunnels. A stationary moleman practically asked a burrower to eat it.

As she shimmied down the hole, she wondered how this mutant had survived to adulthood. It wasn’t possible for him to navigate the Subterra pathways with those feet, and digging was out of the question with his clawless hands. She shook her head. The poor thing probably had enough judgement for one lifetime.

A glowing green circle was ahead of her and she smiled, finally entering safety. They rimmed the large room with star vines that emitted a comfortable dim light.

“Molla-nati-nana, what is this?” The fat moleman with a yellow hat asked. Molla winced. He only used full names when he was angry. The boss waddled around her to inspect her passenger. Pressing his claws to the bridge of his nose, he sighed. “Where are the metals? The food? Why would you bring back some weird pet?”

Molla moved back to the man and stood her ground between him and her boss. “His den abandoned him, they left him in a ray of Sol.”

“Den? A ray of Sol? Molla, this ain’t a moleman.”

She cocked her head, “that’s rude, just cause he looks strange, he’s still one of us.”

“Look at it, if that’s a moleman, I’m a mermaid. Put it back.”

“No,” Molla shook her head furiously. “I won’t abandon him.”

“Save the compassion for your own kind,” the boss said, crossing his claws. A sign of agitation amongst the moleman. “Throw it in the pit with the rest of the trash.”

“You’re a burrower, a beast! How could you?”

“It won’t survive down here, anyway. It’s mercy.”

“What? Of course he will.”

The grizzly moleman poked his furry eyebrow with his knuckles. “Listen, just throw it away and forget about it. Those things shouldn’t be in Subterra.”

“I don’t care, I’m saving him.” She pulled on the rope and headed towards the den gate. Two burly molemen, with edged steel covering their claws, blocked her path. “Move. I demand an audience with the den mother.”

The guards looked at each other, and then to the taskmaster.

He waved a dismissive claw, “let her through, she has the invoked the right to appeal. Nothing we can do. Not that it’ll do anything but waste your time. Den mother is gonna see it my way.”

Molla wrinkled her nose at the boss, eager to prove him an oaf and a fool. She heaved the rope over her shoulder and pulled the man across the trail to the den mother’s dig. She’d understand.

~~~

The den mother’s dig was a paradise for moleman. Wet blue moss covered the round room and shimmered in the light of the star vines that covered the upper bowl of the dig. Artists had carved minimalist etchings of significant events in the den’s history and the moss clung in the deeper cracks, creating a visual of depth and life always present to those appealing to the den mother.

Molla, barely above a runt, only had two rights. To life, and to appeal. Whenever a minion disagreed with a superior, they were allowed to appeal to the den mother. Luckily there wasn’t a line, and only the current appealer, the den mother and her personal guard were present. She was a beauty, fat lined her cheeks and gave her body curves impossible for the average moleman. Molla touched her tight skin self consciously. She’d never be able to eat enough to look like that.

“So what do you say den mother?” The appealing moleman asked.

“You agreed to a debt, a debt you agreed was over five shovel tadpoles. I see no reason to clear your debt.”

“But he said--“

“You said, he said.” The den mother barked at the shrinking moleman. “I won’t tolerate hearsay as your only evidence. Pay your debt in full.”

“And just forget about the five tadpoles? I’ll be broke!”

“Tell me Doo-ga-tana, what do you think that dig of his is worth?” The den mother asked the moleman, swollen with muscle, beside her.

The guard smiled, tapping a claw thoughtfully on his nest of chin whiskers. “How many flakes does a shovel tadpole go for? Ten? Twelve?”

The appealer fell to his belly. Pleading, “My dig--“

“Quiet. Doo is calculating,” the den mother said. No longer needing to raise her voice to remind the moleman of the difference in their statures.

“I’ve seen it, nice hole, pleasant location. Close to the tunnels. I’d say it’s worth... Eight hundred of those tadpoles.”

“I can’t sell my dig for--“

“The punishment for failing to pay debts is exile. Downgrade or be a burrowers snack,” the den mother said.

Doo chuckled, “your choice.”

The moleman got off his belly and bowed, clenching his teeth. He left the room, his eyes downcast. His shoulder slammed into Molla’s knocking her off balance.

“Move,” he grunted.

Molla steadied herself and took a deep breath. She couldn’t let this affect her. The den mother would only respect her best. After regaining her thoughts, she approached and bowed her head onto the dirt floor. “Den mother.”

“Your name?” The guard asked.

“Molla-nati-nana. From the C tunnels.”

“What is that?” The den mother asked.

Molla lifted her head to see the den mother scowling. “during my tunnelling, I came across a cavern, I found this mutant. His den abandoned him. My taskmaster ordered me to toss him into the pit. I can’t do that. Please let me--“

“Slow down girl,” the den mother said. “Mutant? He hardly looks like a moleman. Is it... Could that be a human?”

“Human?” The guard said, pulling his claws up into position to attack. “The evil children of sol.”

The den mother nodded. “Yes, I’m certain of it. That has to be a human. Listen to your taskmaster and toss it.”

“He is not an it,” Molla said. Was he really a human? She wondered. In the tales they were mostly evil, however, that wasn't true of all of them.

“Didn’t you listen to my tales? The children of sol are poisoned by her heat. They are evil.”

“I listened,” Molla said. She extended a claw to the first etching in the moss. “I listened with the language gifted to us by the human. Tales of the humans evil are balanced by tales of good. Tossing him like he’s trash is evil.”

“Don’t preach to me, girl.” The den mother narrowed her eyes and scrunched up her rosy face. “I know where the spoken word comes from.”

Molla bowed, forgetting her place as always. “I’m sorry den mother, I meant no offense. It’s just... It’s too cruel.”

“Isn’t it more cruel to keep it alive? Their kind can’t survive down here long,” The guard added.

The den mother nodded, patting him on the shoulder. “That’s right, that’s right. We can’t risk it being evil, and it would be more cruel to keep it alive.”

It. It. It. It was a living being, not a thing. “Would you toss a runt that has cavern fever?”

The guard took a step forward. “Den mother would never!”

The wealthy woman raised her claws, sparkling with gems, stopping the guard. He shrunk back to his post, biting his lip. “Does this one dig with her tongue?” The den mother smirked. “She’s oftly quick with it. No, we do not toss our own. The den must keep hope that none of them will be abandoned. But Molla-nati-nana, he is not one of us.”

“Then I will take the burden on myself.” Molla said, crossing her claws.

Doo laughed, “a tunneler, take care of a human?”

The den mother glared at her guard, “I will tell you when you may mock our appealers, never assume that you may decide that on your own again.” She sat up and dug her claws into the throne made of iron. “What do you propose?”

“I-- I’ll nurse him back to health, a-and help him return to Solterra,” Molla said, stuttering on her own shock. Did the den mother just defend her?

“Unacceptable.”

“But--“

“Take him to the medic. You might get lucky and be able to return him, but I have zero faith you won’t accidentally kill him with those diggers. Sol, look how you’ve already dragged him.”

Molla turned around and saw the man laying face flat on the dirt. His entire body covered in a coat of dirt, dust, and scraps. “Oh.” Then she turned back with a smile and pressed her forehead to the dirt, “Thank you den mother. Thank you.”

She rushed out the room and headed for the medic’s dig.

“Stop treating it like a sack of mushroom spuds!” The den mother called after her.

The matriarch of the den leaned back into her throne and smiled at the tunnel. Doo cleared his throat and bowed.

“I’m sorry for my earlier outbursts,” he said.

The den mother waved it away. “Most appeals it’s fine, you and I both know how stupid some are. But that girl... She has the making of a den mother, don’t you think?”

Doo opened his eyes wide, parting his lips, unable to say anything.

“It’ll be interesting if she survives this burden.”

~~~

“It’s mostly contusions, no broken bones, but he took a bit of a blow to the noggin. Not sure how much of this was from his fall, and how much is your fault,” the medic said, adjusting his glasses.

Molla tapped her claws together to a rhythmic tune, looking away to hide her grimace. “Yeah, suppose I should’ve been more careful.”

The medic sighed and pulled back the man’s eyelid with his declawed hand. He waved a fresh bulb of a star vine in front of the humans eye and smiled. “At the very least, he’s not concussed.” He picked up the man’s thin hand and shook his head. “Incredible phalanges. These would be so useful.”

“What? He can’t even dig, they’re useless.”

“So closed minded. What good are your hands for besides digging?” He asked, pointing his declawed finger at Molla.

“What else is there?”

The medic leaned back from his work and raised an eyebrow at Molla. “Really? Why was it the den mother sent you to me? The medic.”

She sucked in her lips and turned her head even further away. “Oh... Right.”

“Anyway, without a concussion he’s safe to wake up. Get ready. He will be confused.” The medic moved over to his wall and pulled out a white packet. He sniffed it and jumped back. “Whew, that stuff is potent.”

“What is it?”

“Smelling salt. A whiff of it and you’ll be wide awake,” he said, smiling with slightly beady eyes.

Molla furrowed her brow, “is that... Safe?”

“Plenty!” He moved towards the human and took a deep breath. “You might want to hold him down.”

Molla moved to the human’s side and pressed down on an arm and leg. “Like this?”

“Sure. Sure. Yes. Ok, let’s go.”

The white sack touched the top of the human’s lip and his eyes shot open. His focusing pupils shot back and forth from Molla to the medic and he hyperventilated.

“Relax, you’re safe,” she said

“Who... Where...” He looked around confused, his pupils shrinking, adjusting to the light. “Ah AHH!” his eyes focused on Molla’s claws. His strength was too much, and he jerked out of her press, scrambling off the table, hitting the dirt with a thud, backing away to safety.

“We won’t hurt you.”

He pulled a strange metal contraption off his hip and pressed a button. The sound was like the spring drip, only a hundred times louder. “Hello? Hello? Anyone hear me?” The machine crackled like a fierce water leak. He cursed when the tone didn’t change, throwing the machine at Molla’s head.

She jerked back and shut one eye as blood trickled from her brow down to her eye. The medic rushed to her, but she held up a hand to stop him.

Kneeling down to his eye level, Molla put her hand on her chest. “I’m Molla. You?” She pointed her claw to his chest.

His eyes darted through the darkness, trying to find an escape.

“Molla he’s not listening, we should--“

“Molla,” she tapped on her chest, then pointed to the man again.

“T-t-troy.”

She reached out her claws. He flinched away. “Molla won’t hurt Troy.” She said, purposely simple and direct. Putting her palms on his shoulders, she smiled. “Troy is safe now.”

“Wh-what are you? Where the hell am I?”

“We just saved you runt, don't be rude.”

Molla shot the medic a one eyed glare, silencing him. She wiped the blood from her eye. “We’re molemen, this is our den.”

“Ha...” Troy laughed, growing more hysterical by the second. “This is a prank? Where are the cameras?”

“Camera?” Molla asked the medic. He shrugged.

“These props?” He pulled on Molla’s claws. “Make up? Give it up, I’m not fooled.”

The medic groaned, moving himself further away. “He’s lost his mind.”

“He’s just confused. He doesn’t remember falling.”

“Falling?” Troy pressed his hand to his face. “That’s right, I was... There was a cave in.” He sobbed. “I’m going to die.”

Molla whacked him on the head with the back of her claws. He blinked and looked back up at her. “I will return you to your home.”

~~~

Troy complained about something or other for the thousandth time as they scaled up the tunnel.

“How can you do this? Let’s take a break... Where the hell is my boot.”

Molla stuck her claw into the dirt wall and hung to look down at Troy, who was sticking his useless hands and toes into the holes she made. “how many times do I have to tell you to be quiet?”

Troy looked down and grumbled.

Molla shook her head and resumed the climb up the tunnel she had made earlier. Troy didn’t stop his complaining, but at least he had lowered his voice. She couldn’t even make out the words.

Then a rock dropped in her stomach. Where she burst through, into the cavern, was pitch black. The rays of Sol no longer burning bright.

“No. No, where is sol?”

“Huh? The sun? I don’t know? Is it night?”

“Night?” Molla asked, poking her head into the large empty space.

“You know, when the sun sets... And it gets dark...”

Molla blinked at him, annoyed by all the words he used that made no sense to her.

“Right, you live in caves, you wouldn’t know.” Troy said, climbing up onto the pile of rocks that buried him earlier. He cupped his hands over his mouth and tilted his head back. “Hello!” He shouted. “Can anyone hear me?”

Molla’s heart dropped, and she jumped on top of Troy, covering his mouth.

“What the--mphmm mmm.” He struggled to pull her paws away from his mouth.

Molla was scanning the cavern and hissing at Troy for silence. Then she heard it. The unmistakable scratching of slimy scales on dirt. Her heart thumped, and she pulled Troy up to his feet, glowering at him. You idiot, her eyes saying.

The black needle head poked out from a tunnel. It stuck out it’s sword like tongue, tasting the air. Tasting them. Troy’s eyes opened wide, and he opened his mouth to scream. A natural reaction to the horror of a burrower. She pulled her hands over his mouth, begging him in her mind to just shut up.

Troy resisted and the two of them fell down the rock pile, bringing a wave of dust with them. The burrowers head snapped towards them and it rocketed itself forward. Molla stuck one claw into the dirt. She held on to Troy with the other. A burst of strength and she shot the two of them forward. One claw got stuck, snapping at the base. The earth roared behind them as the burrower slammed into the cavern wall. The world shook. A storm of stone rained down from the ceiling.

Molla squeezed herself into a crevice, pulling Troy in with her. He looked down at her hand, covered in blood. It wasn’t just the nail that broke, the blood vessels were gone too. She would never be able to grow it back. Troy’s shoulder touched hers, the cramped space forcing them together. “Are you--“

“Shh,” what part of ‘be quiet,’ was so hard for him to understand? The burrower emerged from the dust, shaking its slimy body, letting the rocks slide off. Its head pointed towards them, then away, then back. Molla held her breath.

It inched closer. The black tongue touching the edge of the crack that held them. She wrapped her arm around Troy’s and squeezed close to him. Tears burning at her eyes. Lips sealed shut.

There was a snap. White light flooded the cavern from the hole where Troy had fallen. The burrower screeched, racing back to the darkness.

“Trooooy!?” A voice shouted from above. “Are you there!?”

“My crew,” Troy said. “They found me.”

Molla slid out from the crack and exhaled louder than she ever had before. Troy was next to her, their arms still linked. The strange touch comforted her. He turned to her and pressed his lips to hers.

She jerked her head back and pushed him away, “wh-wh-what was that?” Her face burned like Sol was shining directly on it

Troy scratched at the back of his head, “ah. sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You saved me... Again.”

“But that’s-- that!”

“Trooooy!”

Troy groaned, like he was under rubble again. He grabbed her paws and squeezed tight. “I’ll never forget you, Molla.”

“Molla-nati-nana...” Molla corrected, wanting him to know her full name.

“It’s beautiful... I’ll never forget it.”

“Trooooy!”

“I’m down here!” He yelled.

Molla wrapped the back of her claws on his chest. “Don’t tell them about us, the molemen that is.” Her face flushed again. “Our world shouldn't exist together.”

“I promise,” Troy nodded.

She pushed him away. “Don’t you dare forget it,” she said, before scurrying back to the tunnel and diving in. Her paws pressed to her face, feeling so hot. She peaked over the ledge and saw Troy starring at her through the darkness, a rope landing beside him. “Goodbye mutant.”

~~~

Troy was wrapped in a blanket, and a line of his coworkers formed to embrace him.

“We were so sure you died, dude,” one said.

“But then your radio activated. Though nothing got through,” another said.

Troy looked down to his hip, realizing he had left it at the medics. “Oh, I threw it when it didn’t work.”

“You worrying about something as stupid as a radio right now? Insurance's got that. All we care about is you’re safe. It’s a miracle.”

“Yeah it was a miracle,” Troy said. He looked at the flood lamps that pointed down into the cave, and into the darkness. “This might seem like a weird question,” he said. “But does anyone know anything about spelunking?”

~~~

/r/QuarkLaserdisc

Critiques welcome.

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fairyscribbles · 7 years

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LITTLE GREEN - CHALLENGE - (JONGDAE, PT. 12) [CHRONICLES OF THE WOLF SERIES]

Alright, there are two things that I have to say first! The first thing is, I have passed over 1,000 followers!! ♥ ♥ ♥ I feel so happy that so many people enjoy reading my stories, and I hope you will continue doing so! ♥ ♥

The second thing is about this update- this is happening right after the last Jongdae chapter (It was quite a while back, so I would recommend reading it again muhaha). Sorry to confuse you, I completely forgot that Jongdae had one more chapter to go before Kris was being introduced! Well, I hope you enjoy, sweets! ♥

[ Jongdae | Little Green ] \ challenge

You placed the plate on the table, untouched when you leaned back against your mate, your arms wrapped around his neck.

"You full?" Jongdae whispered, his hand stroking down your sides comfortingly as you nodded your head. With one last look around you leaned down, burying your face in his neck.

"Tired?" He was only able to ask before he felt your lips on his neck. He froze when he felt you nibble on a small patch of it.

And then, you bit down.

Jongdae's entire body tightened underneath you, and his arms squeezed around your waist as he urged your hips down against him. You gasped softly against his neck at the feel of his clothed erection.

"Jongdae, are you full?"

Your mate ignored the question, pulling your face up to his so he could stare directly at you with those burning red eyes. His hiss against your lips was dangerous. "Are you tired?"

All you did was nod. Even though, no, you weren't really anymore. He took a deep breath before looking back to Kyungsoo's raised eyebrow. "Yeah. Let me just finish this plate then I'm gonna take __ to bed. Right, baby?"

You only nodded again, turning your attention to the giggle across the table. There she was, Jimin hiding her chuckles behind her hand as she dodged the spaghetti that Chanyeol was shoveling in as if he didn't eat for days. Her eyes were on you and your seemingly dangerous mate as he finished the plate in mere seconds.

"Now, if you excuse us," Jongdae started, gently urging you out of his lap and grabbing your wrist.

"I'm dead tired and this has been a too long day. Good night." Jongdae's speech made Baekhyun laugh, almost spitting out his whisky with an exclamation of "what?!" but your mate didn't listen, basically dragging you of the dining room and up the stairs. Your whole body thrummed with excitement and anticipation, as Jongdae opened the door to his room, holding it for you in a gentlemanly manner. The first thing your eyes fell on when you walked in was the big bed, but you never got to it, as Jongdae pushed you up against the wooden door with a growl.

"What are you trying to do to me?" he rasped against your mouth before claiming it in a deep kiss.

His hips were rolling into yours, and out of instinct you parted them, which apparently made it worse. Jongdae snarled and clamped both his hands right under the curve of your ass before dragging you up against him with your legs hooked over his hipbones.

"Jesus fuck. You're trying to kill me."

You would've asked what he meant, or argued against it anyway, but he was dragging scorching kisses all along your jaw and down the slope of your neck. And his pelvis was still grinding into yours. All the stimulation was making you lightheaded.

You almost yelped when you heard fabric ripping and a cold breeze on your chest when you realized Jongdae literally ripped your blouse off, leaving you bare in front of his blood red eyes.

"As if I don't have it hard enough, all your gentle touches and innocent looks..." he rasped into your ear as he pressed away from the door, dumping you down on the bed.

"And the mental image of you sucking me that will forever stay in my head..." his lips trailed around your shoulder, before he decided to give you the same treatment you gave him at dinner, nibbling at your skin and making you whimper at the feeling of his fangs against you.

"Jongdae~" you mewled, arching your back and subconsciously offering him more.

Jongdae's breaths were harsh, blowing as hot puffs that only served to make you shiver as his fangs settled on the crook of your neck and shoulder. "The day I'm able to..."

He drifted off, and you meant to ask what day when he growled softly. "I need to touch you."

He was touching you. So what could that mean? Jongdae's hands smoothed over your chest, the thin bralette barely covering your breasts. You would've yelped when his fingers dipped underneath the band, but it came out as an embarrassingly loud moan instead.

Jongdae welcomed the moan with a growl of his own, as you felt his claws elongating and you heard the sheer material rip under his unforgiving hands.

"J-jongdae!" You squealed when you attempted to sit up and stare at the shreds which used to be your clothing.

"Th-that was the only one that I have!"

"Good." He snarled, his hand shoving you back on the bed, keeping you pinned.

"Less things to take off you." You whined, but his hands molded against your breasts, cupping them with an almost reverent look on his face. "J-Jongdae..."

His hands were warm against your sensitive skin, making you shiver and Jongdae growled when he felt your nipples puckering against his palm.

"Fucking perfect..." he basically growled before swooping down and sucking one nipple into his mouth. Your lower belly clenched with immediate pleasure, chest rising up against him with a noise of both surprise and excitement.

This is what you wanted- Jongdae not holding back. Jongdae showing what he really wanted and that he knows how to get it. You covered your moan with your hand as you felt his other hand pinch at your nipple.

"Jongdae..." you breathed through your fingers.

He groaned in answer before moving to the other nipple and switching from fingers to his tongue.

You were curious as to what will happen next. Your whole body was waiting in excitement at how you were able to rile your mate up, to make him lose control, and you wanted to see more.

"Shit." Jongdae rasped, holding himself up with his elbows on each side of your head, looking at you with blood red eyes and deep breaths.

"No..." you gasped.

Jongdae looked down at you, his forehead creased.

"Don't stop..."

Jongdae growled, deep in his chest as he swooped down to kiss you passionately, making you forget how to breathe. He was everywhere, he was the only thing that mattered, along with the thrust of his hips against your clothed core.

You wanted it. You didn't even know what, but you wanted it.

"Baby..." he leaned away with another peck to your lips.

"I am not taking you the first thing you got out of that bastard's dungeon."

You shook your head lightly, whining. "But..."

Jongdae forced his hips to still, forced himself to ease off you. "Baby... right now... It's not a good time. I don't wanna take advantage of you."

"But you won't! Take advantage of me..." you tried to persuade him, but Jongdae didn't listen. He just shook his head while wrapping an arm around your naked waist and bringing you closer to him.

"Not now, ___."

You nearly sobbed out of frustration. Maybe Jimin was wrong. Or maybe you just did something wrong. Maybe...

"I just..." Jongdae groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. "A little bit at a time, okay? Slowly. And not right after a traumatic situation for you."

Jongdae sighed deeply, doing his best to control the snarling and hissing beast in him that demanded him to flip you on your stomach and fuck you so hard he'd pound the bed into another room. And the fact that your scent told him you welcomed the idea wasn't helping at all.

"We have all the time in the world, babe..." he said, trying to calm both of you.

"Let's go at it slowly, please? For your sake and for my sanity." Yet despite what he was saying, Jongdae found himself stroking your hip. Sighing, he shed his shirt and slid it over your head. "Here. Let's cover you up. This isn't good for me."

You smiled. "Sorry." He chuckled, ruffling your hair.

"What did I say about apologizing?"

"Not to..?" you said with a soft laugh.

"You have nothing to be sorry for." He kissed your forehead. "Just... we'll sleep it off for now."

You sighed in agreement, nestling into his warm embrace.

"I missed this..." you confessed after a while of quiet silence.

"I did, too. When was the last time I came over to your place?"

"Too long ago..." you only said, your eyes closing at the way he stroked your hair.

"Well you won't have to worry about missing it anymore." You could hear the smile in his tone.

"I know. I'm glad," you said with a soft kiss to whatever part of skin you could reach first.

After all that worry, all that fear since you've been locked up at Donghwan's...this felt like heaven.

And sleep felt never as good as this one.

#series: Chronicles of the Wolf #exo #exo wolf story #exo werewolf au #exo werewolf story #jongdae #jongdae story #chen #chen story

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nightglider124 · 7 years

Text

Goodbye

Nothing like a bit of Sunday evening angst, eh?

Nothing can prepare you for it.

Loss is one of those things that you can’t train for, you can’t plan for and you can’t dodge it or run from it, no matter how hard you try to anyway.

It’s inevitable.

In death, there is peace but it leaves a trail of destruction and agony for the loved ones left behind.

His passing, in hindsight, should have been more obvious. He was getting older. He didn’t eat as much anymore. He didn’t get as excited as he used to.

He had grown tired.

He just didn’t feel like playing as much anymore.

And yet, it was so unexpected.

None of them ever really considered it before or perhaps, they just didn’t want to think of it; to accept the harsh reality that would one day come.

And unfortunately, that day had come sooner than they thought.

They had all assumed he would live forever.

That he would always be there, like he always had been for each and every one of them.

So, now, they were all there for him like the family they were.

Cyborg had dug the small hole at the back of the tower. It went without saying that he would receive a proper burial. He was one of them; an honorary Titan as Beast Boy so often liked to quip.

They knew no light-hearted jokes would come from him today, even if it would bring some ease to them. They knew his heart just wouldn’t be in it.

Dick felt the breeze ruffle his hair and he shivered at the chill it brought with it.

The sky was dark, the wind was blustery and a few raindrops had already started to fall. The weather was incredibly tuned to the tragedy that had struck them.

Pulling the edges of his jacket a little tighter around his chest, Dick watched as Cyborg lifted his head. His eyes shone with the sadness they all felt as he put the shovel to one side.

Apparently, the time had come to put a good friend to rest.

Dick had been the one to find him and it was taking so much not to break as well. But, he had someone he needed to be strong for; the one taking this worse than anyone else.

It had been a normal day and he’d had to run to the bedroom he shared with his wife to grab something. Dick had happily greeted their little larvae who was lying on the end of their bed, wrapped up like he always was.

But, there was something different; something off.

As he peered closer, his heart sank. Dick was a remarkable detective and it didn’t take long to figure out their pet was not sleeping.

In the moment, he didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t wanted to tell Starfire, knowing how much it would crush her.

But, with a gentle kiss to the top of his cold back, Dick had scooped him up in the blanket and stumbled into the common room.

He hunched his shoulders again, the cold nipping at his skin a lot more today.

There had been different reactions but Starfire’s… that had been the worst. It had been a difficult few days, to say the least. She was in bits.

The moment he had stepped into the common room and she’d turned from the kitchen; she’d clocked the heart wrenching understanding of what had happened.

She had collapsed on her knees, hiccupping and choking on her tears and shaking her head, struggling to believe her little bumgorf was gone; that he’d been taken from her.

Beast Boy had gone extremely quiet and shared a similar disbelief as Starfire, searching Dick’s stricken expression but with a hand on his shoulder from Raven, he knew there was no happy ending there. Even Raven looked hurt and affected by the worm’s death.

Cyborg had sat down and leaned back, a solemn expression on his face. It had taken a couple days for Starfire to get to grips with it enough to tell them she wanted him buried beneath the Earth of their home. His home.

Their cybernetic friend had made sure his little body remained preserved until Starfire was comfortable with burying him.

All of them were affected by the small larvae’s death but Starfire was bound to take it the hardest. She had always cared for him like he was her child; her baby. She doted on him, loving him unconditionally; the way he had always loved her. So, here they were, stood around the ominous hole in the ground; the place their beloved team pet would be laid to rest.

Dick glanced at his team, all staring down at the ground with the same gloomy expression. Even Raven was clutching her husband’s arm with her eyebrows furrowed in sorrow.

He sighed. There was no lightness in the day; everything felt as miserable as it was.

It didn’t feel real.

Dick was finding, more than anything, that he just kept forgetting as he called out for his little friend or picked up one of his old toys around the tower.

Realisation would wash over him and he’d feel himself deflate. It was harder than he ever thought it would be to say goodbye.

It was strange that the majority of them really didn’t know they would miss the little guy so much until it was too late.

Dick suddenly turned his head at the sound of autumn leaves being crunched against the grass by approaching footsteps; footsteps he’d know anywhere.

Starfire was silent but her face said it all. Her grief was written everywhere. She was paler and the spark in her eyes and hair had faded for now. No one expected her to just shrug this off.

It was horrible and they all stood, wishing it hadn’t happened.

His eyes shifted, gazing at the 3 year old walking with her hand in Starfire’s. She was staring up at her mother with sad and confused eyes. Dick sighed again.

Telling Mar'i had been horrible, for him at least. She was so young and he had no idea how to explain Silkie’s death to her.

She didn’t understand any of it. Why is Silkie not here anymore? Where has Silkie gone? When will he be back?

They were merely a handful of questions that fell from his little girl’s mouth. She had been so brave, confused but so brave and had been a little trooper in helping Starfire to cope.

When Starfire had needed a cuddle, Mar'i had been there. When Starfire had felt the tears threatening, Mar'i had been there to make her smile. She was looking after her mama, rather than allowing herself to get caught up in the misery of it all.

Their daughter, despite her young age, was incredibly perceptive. She caught onto a lot more than most 3 year olds are able to.

Silkie’s passing had affected her, Dick knew that for certain. The two of them were almost as inseparable as Starfire was with him. He had always protected Mar'i, even when Starfire was pregnant with her. For months, Silkie would hiss at fellow family members and Titans who would try to touch her belly.

Even Dick had gotten a few glares and growls for rubbing her pregnant stomach.

But, he was fairly sure that there was some part of his daughter’s brain that didn’t understand the concept of death just yet. He didn’t think she understood that he was gone and wasn’t coming back.

That or she already had an incredible grasp on her emotions and how to deal with such things. That was less plausible though considering she was half Tamaranian, the people that lived and breathed emotions.

Dick looked up at his beautiful wife, who even through her constant flow of tears, still looked like a red headed goddess.

His heart broke for her even more than it already had. She shuffled against the blustery winds of the bleak morning with Mar'i leading the way.

No one said a word as they crowded around the hole in the ground.

As Starfire reached him, Dick automatically touched her waist and gave her a side cuddle, kissing her temple.

It was quiet until Mar'i tilted her head to the side whilst staring down at the box in the hole, where their little Silkie now lay.

“Daddy, why is he in a box?” Mar'i asked, the innocence dripping in her tone,

Dick swallowed the lump in his throat and fought not to glance at Starfire. He kneeled down to be level with his little girl and brushed her black tufts of hair over her shoulder.

“Because, sweetie… that way, he’s comfier and… protected.” He stammered, struggling to answer more than he thought he would,

Mar'i opened her mouth but closed it again and nodded, accepting that. Starfire sniffled and ran her fingers through Mar'i’s hair. She tightened the blanket around her shoulders and breathed deeply to control her spiralling emotions.

Cyborg took a deep breath and scanned the circle of Titans, “Does… anyone want to say a few words? B?”

Beast Boy lifted his head and gave into a shuddering breath, “Silkie… you were the best pet ever… I…” He paused and Raven jerked her head up to see her husband, desperately searching for the right thing to say and simultaneously trying to keep his emotions in check.

“And… you’ll be dearly missed…” Raven finished in a soft voice, saving Beast Boy from continuing. He offered her a brief glance in thanks before bowing his head.

Raven felt her own heart give a tug. He was a slimy, fat worm but at the end of the day… he was theirs. He was a part of their team and family. Even she felt a connection to the little larvae that had initially been a secret.

Cyborg sadly shifted to look down at the resting place. He kneeled down slowly and brought forth one of his extra legs. On any other day, they’d probably look at him like he was insane but there was nostalgic warmth in the gesture as he lowered the extra limb into the grave.

The others gave into the tiniest of smiles, casting their minds back to the night when Silkie had first wriggled into their lives and eaten Cyborg’s leg.

“Now… you can chew on it all you like, little bud.”

He flexed his jaw and inhaled a deep breath before looking at Dick who rolled his shoulders and sighed.

“Rob?”

Dick nodded slowly and cleared his throat several times before speaking.

“Silkie… buddy… I hope there’s lots of food up there for ya… I hope… you’re okay and you know how loved you were down here, especially by your mama.” He paused as he felt Starfire take his hand and squeeze, “… we’re gonna miss you…”

Letting his head drop for a moment, he remembered what Mar'i had been holding in her free hand.

“Mar'i… honey… did you want to say bye to Silkie?” He asked, keeping his tone gentle,

The dark haired girl nodded and blinked before bringing forth a small teddy bear in the form of an elephant. Dick smiled softly. He had bought the plushie for her when he and Starfire had taken her to her first ever circus back when she was just a baby.

Silkie had been notorious for stealing it away from her at any given chance and nibbling on the ears. He had successfully managed to bite off one of the flappy ears when Mar'i was just over a year old.

Oh, how she had cried and yelled at Silkie for that. She had been heartbroken that her elephant was “ruined” but now, here she stood and Dick was pretty sure he knew what she was going to do.

“I’ll miss you, Silkie… you can have ellie… and you can chew her other ear off too… if you want to.” She murmured, giving the stuffed toy a little kiss before crouching down to throw it into the hole, “I love you, Silkie.”

Starfire’s lip quivered and she tilted her head up, on the verge of tears at her little girl’s parting gift to her beloved bumgorf.

Mar'i stepped back and slipped her hand back into Starfire’s. She peered up at her mother, blinking those big green eyes at her,

“Mommy? I think it’s your turn…” She told her.

Starfire gave her a watery smile and stepped up to the very edge of the grave before kneeling down, the edges of her blanket brushing the blades of grass.

Mar'i took a seat beside her, acting as support and Dick inwardly smiled. She was being so good and so kind. The girl wasn’t even 5 years old and yet, she already had a heart of gold.

Just like her mother.

Starfire stared down at the brownish box her little larvae had been placed in and she swallowed the growing lump in her throat. Fingers brushing against the soil, she felt the constant beating of her heart.

“Silkie… my little bumgorf… there… there are no words to describe… h-how much you meant to me…” She furrowed her eyebrows as a couple tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks.

Mar'i was there, wiping them away with her tiny fingers. She leaned into Starfire, resting her head against her mom’s side.

“It’s okay, mama… as long as you don’t forget him… he can never be gone! Right?” Her baby girl told her, smiling up comfortingly.

Starfire hiccupped but found herself smiling. She wrapped her arms around Mar'i and pulled her into her lap before kissing her mass of black hair.

“That is right, my little one.” Starfire whispered, pulling back to rest her cheek atop of Mar'i’s head.

“Mama?”

“Y-Yes?”

“When did you first get Silkie?”

Starfire smiled sadly, “Actually… he did not initially belong to me.”

Mar'i lifted her head, “He didn’t?”

Shaking her head, Starfire looked towards her brother, “Uncle Gar was the one who brought him home.”

Beast Boy found himself grinning at Mar'i, “Ha! You should’ve seen it, Mar'i! You’re mom was sooo not wanting to take care of him for me.”

Mar'i giggled, “No! Mama, did you really not wanna?”

“Not at first… Uncle Gar had been keeping Silkie a secret.”

Dick nodded from behind his girls, “That he had.”

Beast Boy openly laughed now, “Well, you guys wouldn’t have let me keep him if I’d asked!”

Raven shrugged, “That’s because he liked eating everything in the tower. Even the inedible things…”

“He never took to tofu, ya know.” Beast Boy murmured, tapping his chin in thought,

Cyborg shuddered, “That’s because tofu is nasty, man.”

Beast Boy waved him off, “After all these years, I still don’t care what you say about it. Tofu is delicious.”

A particularly cold breeze had Mar'i shivering and Starfire gave Raven a look that only the empath could understand.

Raven nodded and untangled her arm from Beast Boy’s. She wandered over and took Mar'i’s hand,

“How about we go inside and Gar can tell you all about it over hot chocolate, hm?”

Mar'i nodded excitedly but turned, tenderly touching her mother’s cheek,

“Mommy… you will be okay?” She wondered in a small voice,

Starfire felt tears prick her eyes again at her daughter’s purity and innocence. She turned her head, pressing a kiss to Mar'i’s palm before nodding,

“Of course, my little bumgorf. I shall be fine.”

Mar'i nodded and allowed Raven and Beast Boy to take her inside for that promised hot chocolate. Cyborg gave Dick a discretionary nod and silently followed after the others, giving Starfire the time she needed to grieve.

As soon as her daughter was out of earshot, Starfire crumbled. She broke the barrier and the tears freely flowed. She lifted a shaky hand to her mouth to try and calm herself down but it just wasn’t working.

Dick was next to her in an instant. He stroked her hair and her back, gently kissing the tears away.

“Wh-why, Richard? Why now?” She hiccupped, “why did Silkie have to die now?”

“Star… I don’t know why, baby… but, he had long run with us. He lasted so much longer than I ever thought he would. He even lived to see the newest little bumgorf come into the world.”

Starfire whimpered, “Silkie will always be my first bumgorf.”

Dick nodded, holding her against his chest, “I know… in some way… he was our baby before we actually had Mar'i. He prepared us.”

“I wish he was still here…”

“He’ll always be here, Star… like Mar'i said.”

“She is so perfect.”

Dick smiled, “We’re lucky to have such a precious baby girl.”

Starfire sniffled and shrugged herself out of Dick’s embrace, sitting up straight. She tugged the blanket off from around her shoulders and kissed it for a long moment before letting it flutter over the box at the bottom of the grave,

“He-He will be cold otherwise, Richard. Silkie does not like to be cold…” She whispered, her voice cracking again.

Dick felt the heaviness in his chest; the familiar one of grief and sadness and agony. All of it came as a package when loss was experienced.

“He’ll always have a place in our hearts, Star and he will never be forgotten.” He mumbled, kissing her temple.

Slowly, Starfire nodded and inhaled deeply.

“Why don’t we go and get in on that hot chocolate deal?” He urged,

“Mhm… and the reminiscing of Silkie.”

“Of course.”

Dick helped his wife to her feet and gave her a warm kiss on the lips. It was nothing but a peck, one that was gentle and reminded her that he was here for her; that is was okay to grieve and be upset.

Silkie was more than just a pet; he was Starfire’s best friend; her most valued being besides him or Mar'i. Silkie mattered to her as much as any of their friends.

He was like no other living thing. He was always there and she believed her daughter when she said Silkie would continue to always be there, even if it wasn’t physically.

Starfire took one last look at the grave before brushing her hair behind her ears and sniffling. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater and turned to leave.

She swivelled back to Dick who was staring at the grave too,

“Are you coming, my love?” She asked, meekly,

“I’ll be there in a second, baby. I just wanna make sure he gets covered up again.”

Starfire gave him a tiny smile before nodding and walking back to the tower.

Dick sighed and ran a hand through his dark locks. He walked around the edge and picked up the shovel. Slamming it down into the small mound of soil, he started scooping the earth back into the hole.

It didn’t take him long to fill in Silkie’s grave again. It was a small rectangular hole in the ground. After all, he had always been a tiny larvae, except for the odd occasion when he mutated over the years.

Dick lay the shovel aside and shuffled on the spot.

There was one last thing he wanted to add; something to commemorate their passing friend.

Opening his jacket ever so slightly, Dick slipped a small grey plaque from the inside pocket. He didn’t want the grave to just be a hole in the ground. It held a special friend and he deserved a proper acknowledgement.

Starfire didn’t know Dick had had it made and neither did the others.

It was his own personal goodbye to Silkie.

Carefully, Dick kneeled down and laid the stone plaque against the top of the grave; resting it just on top of the soil.

He stared at it for a long moment before heaving in a deep breath and getting to his feet,

“Sleep tight, Silkie.” Dick murmured, shoving his hands into his pockets and jogging back towards the tower to join in on the hot chocolate fest.

It wasn’t hard to love Silkie. His little warbles and big cheesy smiles got everyone in the end; whether you wanted to give in or not.

Give him your heart and he’d give you his, without question. Always.

All he ever wanted was affection and boy, was he smothered with love by Starfire.

In the end, it was peaceful. He was loved and he knew it.

The last ray of sunlight washed across the grey plaque, lighting up the letters as the Earth bid farewell to another day.

‘Silkie.

Beloved bumgorf and Titan.

Gone but never forgotten.’

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loreleywrites · 7 years

Text

Flash Fiction: “Gluttony”

Ingot Chewer by Kev Walker

“Run, goats, run!” Amadain’s voice cracked.

The elemental bore down on the kithkin’s fencing, wrapping its tentacle-tongue around the wiring and slurping it down. Bleating goats dashed in every direction. Amadain huffed and ran and ran and huffed.

CRUNCH

“Gah!”

The blade of his shovel disappeared inside the creature’s mouth. A flurry of sparks erupted from the behemoth as the metal was ground to dust.

Pebble eyes lazily leered past the shepherd’s head, honing in on a rusted wheelbarrow leaning against Amadain’s hovel. The earth rumbled with each clawfall as the elemental lumbered forward.

“Not the house!”

The kithkin’s cap flew into the wind as he dashed and grabbed his pitchfork from a pile of hay.

“Hey. Hey! You…thing! I’ve got some yummy yummy iron right here!” he squawked, poking the beast’s leathery flank.

A yawn unleashed its whip-like tongue, which narrowly missed the pitchfork. A glob of saliva splooshed onto Amadain’s tunic instead. The kithkin groaned, hobbling backwards to try and lure the elemental back out to the woods. Soft and loamy soil showered him as a massive claw thudded inches from his feet.

Amadain stumbled.

Tripped.

Fell.

The pitchfork went sailing through the air, but never hit the ground. The shepherd watched a scarlet line snatch it and reel it back into a gaping maw. Mashing, sparks, and a gulp. The tool was gone, and the elemental was once again heading towards the house.

“This is it. If it won’t leave my house alone, I’ll just feed it until it’s good and plump and finds a nice cave to nap in,” Amadain thought, but the actual sound he made was a panicked yelp.

He flung open his front door and started grabbing every pot, pan, spoon, candlestick, and magical amulet his stubby arms could carry. RATTLE dropped a skillet. CLATTER shattered a plate. THUD a chair fell over. He dashed back into the sun and taunted the monster with a soup-crusted ladle.

The racket caught the elemental’s attention. While the odor of old cabbage did nothing to whet the monster’s appetite, the tinny scent of the ladle beckoned its jaws wide open. It swaggered over to Amadain and playfully lashed its tongue in the air. The kithkin wound up and launched the ladle into the belly of the beast.

MUNCH CRUNCH and a flurry of sparks.

“Aha, you sure liked that, foul-mouthed fiend!”

He raised a miniature cauldron above his head and taunted again. A heave and a sigh and a CRACKLE as the cauldron was demolished in a flash brighter than the sunlight. In went a butter knife. A mirror. A can of nails. All of it was consumed effortlessly by the elemental.

Panting, Amadain lifted his last trinket above his head. The sigil was encrusted with cerulean gems that formed the eyes of a kithkin face. It was a crest inherited from generations of farmers. It didn’t seem to have any function, so it might as well be monster food.

He tossed the heirloom in. The elemental smashed its jaws shut, eliciting the familiar sparks…but also ethereal wisps of blue? The eye-gems had shattered, unleashing ancient magic into the beast. The wisps wound themselves into tethers. The tethers tightened into restraints. Soon, the monster’s mouth was bound shut with radiant ropes.

“Huh,” the kithkin crooked his head.

A goat bleated nearby as the elemental’s stomach gurgled. The rumbling crescendoed, causing the its skull to rattle. The glowing fetters strained, snapped, and dissipated. A cacophonous URRRRP knocked Amadain right on his bottom.

The elemental turned back to the wheelbarrow, lashing out with its tongue one last time.

CRUNCH

The ensuing sparks sprinkled the thatch roof of the kithkin’s home, setting it ablaze. As the elemental lumbered back to the woods, its thrashing tails toppled the stonework of the hut.

Amadain’s eyes fixated on the sky. Dust and smoke billowed across his vision. A hungry goat hopped over and began chewing on the toe of his boot. He sighed.

#Flash Fiction #Magic The Gathering #MTG #storytime #fiction #fan fiction #Lorwyn #kithkin #elementals

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ravishankarsivasubramaniam · 5 years

Text

Shovel, Knife, Story, Ax

Erika Howsare | Longreads | May 2019 | 18 minutes (4,826 words)

I am going to tell you a bunch of stories about killing and death, but the first one is a story about a story. It was short, and my neighbor was the storyteller. He told it to John and me ten years ago, the first time we met him. After hello, his very next words to us were: “I once killed a copperhead on your kitchen table.”

Taken aback, we laughed. In those days, we had no killing stories of our own. Now, things are different.

Hear the self-defense in this one:

One morning last June, the day of the solstice, I had a little time on my hands. We had a vet appointment at 10:30 and it was 10:18, a bit too soon to wheedle the cat into the car. I brought some things down to the basement of our old house to put them away.

In the underground chill I deposited the laundry basket on top of the washer, turned back toward the stairs, and heard a little sound. Like a soft slap, an object slipping onto the floor. I looked. There are often animals in the basement, birds and crickets and mice. This was a snake.

Pages shuffled, then laid flat in my brain, one on top of the other. It wasn’t very long, maybe the length of my arm. It was rather fat in the body. I was checking its markings against the mental files called Copperhead and Not Copperhead. My brain dispassionately placed this one in the Copperhead column. It was holding perfectly still, not coiled, but certainly watching me, wary in its posture.

I didn’t have to move any closer to the snake to reach the stairs. I mounted the steps, quickly but not running, and already my voice was announcing to my two tiny daughters, Ooh, there’s a copperhead down there!

We all stood at the top of the steps and looked at it. It was on the far side of an old screen door which was propped up on its long edge. Through the screen we could see its tail, maybe eight or ten inches of it, still not moving.

My first thought was to close the door and go to the vet. Just save this problem for another hour, another person. I am not the one who handles snakes.

But John would not be home for more than seven hours. I imagined calling him, looking for advice or some kind of permission. I imagined being late to the vet, then being on time to the vet. I imagined getting home from the vet and looking down from the top of the steps and not seeing the snake.

This was the worst scenario of all. There are ten thousand places for a snake to hide down there. If the copperhead disappeared into some secret basement corner, it would be years before I could go downstairs comfortably again.

I was working it out aloud, half to the girls, half to myself. They craned to see the snake. No, you can’t go down there, I answered them. I heard my dad’s voice in my head, last summer after another snake encounter, exhorting me to be ruthless toward dangerous beasts invading my territory. At the time, I’d argued for mercy. I thought of a woman in a memoir I read years ago, who told of confronting snakes in the cabin where she lived alone.

I would not call my snake-killing neighbor; I don’t even have his number. I would not call John.

I went to my bedroom and kept up with answering the girls’ excited patter as I exchanged my shorts for jeans and my sandals for boots. I put on John’s heavy coat. I looked for his work gloves but couldn’t find them. Elsie wanted to write down John’s phone number in case of emergency. I gave it to her one digit at a time. She wrote the 6 backwards.

I found the long-handled shovel right outside the back door — hiding, like the snake, in plain sight. I walked in my boots through the kitchen, shushed Rosa, descended the basement steps and hardened, hardened, rounded the corner and faced the serpent. There was no pause. It never budged. I raised the shovel, blade edge down, and thunked it directly down onto the snake.

I hit it about six more times, its body flopping each time the metal shovel blade sliced into its fatness. A chunk broke off. It was belly-up, black and pale instead of the handsome pinks and browns of its back. It was just flesh without intention, a little blood on the floor, some guts poking through a hole in its side.

Shaky victorious back up the steps. Shovel back in its place. Clothes changed. We were only a few minutes late to the vet.

An unmistakable high, the satisfaction of violence, of having become in my total being a weapon that was perfectly effective. All day I was full of adrenaline.

Kills make great stories. There are always words around killing animals.

There are always questions, too. Was the victim one of us? Wild, habituated, domesticated? Photogenic, charismatic?

Is the killer now regretful?

What about you; have you ever harmed a fly?

Deflection.

A few weeks after the copperhead killing, John found a blacksnake in our chicken coop. It was curled around eggs but hadn’t yet eaten any; he reached inside the loop made by its body and retrieved the eggs and then we brought the girls out to see it by flashlight and touch its skin, chilled from a day of rain and clouds.

I walked into the basement, maybe twelve hours after the last time I’d been there, and a thick spiderweb wrapped my legs.

John was cleaning the shed and found, in an old box of leftover tile, a mother mouse with two newborns hanging onto her teats. The mother scooted away, dragging the babies. A little further down in the box, he found one more baby.

We took our girls to a wildlife hospital for a group tour. I was sitting in the audience, shaking my head in disapproval along with everybody else as a hospital employee told the story of a turtle patient who’d been hit by a car. “Some woman swerved deliberately to hit it,” she said. We all clucked our tongues.

When we moved here, to Virginia’s Blue Ridge, I did not appreciate how different our life would be than my childhood. I grew up in a rural village south of Pittsburgh, thinking I lived in the country. But it wasn’t, really. It might as well have been the suburbs. Our entire lawn was shorn; I never went walking in the woods. I never played in creeks. I read in my room and was driven to piano lessons. We swam in a swimming pool in town; my parents gave up gardening sometime during my middle childhood. The country was, for us, a pretty view out the western windows of the house.

Kills make great stories. There are always words around killing animals.

Somehow, John and I have landed in a much wilder place. Our yard ends where thousands of acres of woods begin. There is a national forest at the end of our dead-end road, and a perennial creek borders our property and fills the air with its sound. There is a vital energy to the place, a sense of living among large forces and forms.

Right after we moved in, a blacksnake appeared in the bathroom early in the morning. Phoebes nested on the porch. Once or twice, blacksnakes climbed the porch column at night to eat the hatchlings; we shooed them away.

We brushed stinkbugs off the lamps into cups of soapy water and flushed ticks down the toilet. We trapped mice. Our garden got bigger and bigger as we kept digging up more beds behind the house. One evening John was weeding and looked up to see a black bear regarding him from the edge of the woods. The bear turned and noiselessly retreated.

After we got home from the vet I found a faded red bucket and took the shovel back downstairs and scooped up, with much less aplomb than I’d shown in the killing, the slippery body of the copperhead. It seemed to shiver a little with every touch of the shovel. Its blood mixed with a little water left in the bucket. Its head was separated and flattened; it insisted on lying upside down. The girls and I examined the corpse; I wanted them to learn to identify this snake, the most dangerous one they’re likely to encounter on our property. I had to tip and jiggle the bucket to turn the snake over and show its hourglass pattern. Rosa wanted to touch it but I couldn’t take the thought, somehow imagining that soup of fluids in the bottom of the bucket was laced with venom. The high had curdled. Thankfully, there was no smell.

A few hours later, I looked again and found two different kinds of beetle feeding on the carcass. Two species, of dazzling colors, I’d never seen before. It was as though the snake had drawn them to its body from another plane of existence. They ran around frantically inside the bucket.

Late that night, John and I sat with gin and tonics on the deck, looking at fireflies and stars. The red bucket and its contents sat not far away. A charged vessel. One website I’d looked at in the afternoon said “The best way to get rid of a copperhead is to leave it alone.” Another said people routinely misidentify copperheads. I sipped my drink. John said absolutely I had done the right thing, that this was definitely a copperhead, and admired the way I’d managed it, and I couldn’t help grinning in the dark. Full of a rite of passage. I’ve been shocked by the electric fence, I’ve eaten the rabbit John hunted, I’ve plucked a chicken, and now I’ve killed a snake with a shovel while my babies watched. I’m a real country lady, just like the woman who wrote that book.

John suggested throwing the body to the chickens. This idea, for some reason, revolted me. Chicken beaks dismantling a pale, smooth, venomous body. The snake and all that fearful, fierce energy becoming transmuted into our most domestic commodity, the eggs we eat for breakfast. I said I’d throw it in the woods instead. An act of, in some measure, shame.

Every time we saw our neighbor after that initial copperhead-on-the-table story, there was a corpse in the conversation. “I got that hawk,” he’d say. “I got that fox.” “Seen any snakes? I got a snake.”

At first, what seemed funny and crazy about this to us was the sheer zest for blood. We were encountering plenty of animals but it never occurred to us to end their lives. Unless they were stinkbugs or mice or ticks. That was a line that we drew without thought.

It was when we began keeping chickens that more and more of our animal experiences seemed to involve carcasses, and the lines started to shift.

Our very first day as chicken owners was touched by death. We’d driven our five new laying hens home in the sack into which our farmer friend had stuffed them, and when we opened the sack — they’d been in there nearly an hour, apparently getting dangerously overheated — two of them looked dead. John managed to revive one, but the other never came around.

Revive, revise. We couldn’t undo our decision to trust that those hens would survive the trip. Our friend’s judgment had been wrong.

After some anxious deliberation, we decided to pluck and clean the body. As we dismantled it, a warm egg slipped out of the chicken into our hands. Then several eggs-in-waiting, jelly and yolks not yet enclosed in shells. The chicken’s body, we now viscerally understood, contained an egg assembly line. John cut off the head and feet. We pulled off feathers and pulled out guts. Working from online instructions, we transformed the limp corpse into a tidy, naked, iconic-looking chicken ready for roasting.

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Our farmer friend, Richard, was apologetic about the death, but highly approved of our decision to turn the bird into food. He himself was a lifelong handler of livestock: pigs, cows, sheep, chickens, all the standard barnyard animals that form the cartoon lineup seen by every American child from earliest childhood, but which are actually real creatures, made of flesh and eyes and packed with slime and shit. Richard had spent his life around these animals: helping them birth, resuscitating babies who came out looking bad, kicking them away from openings in fences, slicing their throats and cutting up their bodies for meat.

It was on his farm where I’d opened the door of a walk-in cooler, a box of kale in my arms, to find the skinned carcass of a hog hung by one ankle (O, the bite of the hook behind the Achilles tendon), its head staring from a plastic bin on the floor beneath. I’d observed the comings and goings of various animals: the injured lamb who lived in fly-riddled misery in a crate for a couple of months in the barn, the enormous-testicled hog who sauntered around in the pig fence.

Richard’s attitude toward his livestock was entirely businesslike. He shouted at his dogs and shot one who killed chickens. He had zero sentimentality, though in a way he had respect for the animals: hard-earned knowledge of their natures.

I’d worked on the farm for three summers in my twenties. An absorbing tapestry of smells permeated the place: red clay mud, compost, blood, manure, and a high note of fresh basil. The tomatoes were thrillingly ripe when they came in from the fields, but within a few days a ripe tomato becomes a puckered sack of mold. Feathers and bones and eggshells and wilted cabbage trimmings were everywhere, mixed with straw and clods of dirt. Sparkly white quartz turned up in the rust-colored soil.

I joyfully immersed myself in all this life, all this fecundity; it made me hungry in a way that I’d never felt before. I embraced the considerable measure of decay intertwined with the growth, but since I was working only with vegetables and not livestock — I didn’t even eat meat at the time — I wasn’t really going all the way. It’s one thing to strip a kale plant of its leaves, bundling them with a rubber band; it’s another thing to end the life of a creature with eyes and a brain.

We had unwittingly embarked on a new relationship with death.

With that first chicken cleaning at our own house, we’d entered a different realm, and Richard knew it; that’s why he was proud of us. Yet he surely knew what we still didn’t realize: that this would hardly be our last dead chicken, and that chickens would more often die at the teeth and claws of predators than through strange accidents like overheating.

The hens, silly and vulnerable even inside their electric fence, seemed to act like magnets, drawing carnivores out of those thousands of acres of woods, each armed with its own clever tricks for killing. Hawks came first, leaving a scatter of feathers in the grass when they swooped to grab a bird. Possums and raccoons penetrated what we thought was a fortress-like coop in the night. Our flock was always changing number: down to two, up to seven, down to six. We stopped naming the chickens. The more accustomed we became to chicken chores — feeding, watering, moving the coop — and the more the birds wove themselves into our sense of home, the less attached we felt to each hen. They became sentient egg factories, temporary storage for energy that our bodies could use.

We were both predators of our hens, and protectors.

One fall, we began to lose a chicken every night. This was something of a mystery until one afternoon, under a heavy grey sky, when I looked outside and saw a coyote wrestling with one of our two remaining hens. She was caught in the fence and the coyote was shaking her back and forth with its teeth to free her. With little thought, I left my baby daughter in her high chair and ran outside, yelling hey! Hey! The coyote dropped the bird and ran off. I inspected the bird. She was fine. But that night, during a violent storm, she disappeared. The last one followed a couple of nights later.

We had unwittingly embarked on a new relationship with death. We were often failing to keep safe these creatures for whom we had taken responsibility, and we had to confront the messes. These experiences smoothed the way for us to become the killers ourselves. One hen contracted Marek’s disease, a disturbing ailment that causes partial paralysis, the hen’s legs splaying out cockeyed on the ground. There is no cure. John cut her head off with an ax and composted her unappetizing body.

Our first rooster was healthy as could be, but we killed him because he was too aggressive, attacking any human except John who entered the fence. I still have a mark on my leg from the point of his beak, and our friends had to fend him off when they were feeding our animals while we traveled. One used a garbage-can lid for a shield. After he chased our daughter, then two years old, we decided to put an end to him.

I should acknowledge that, yes, we could have tried to find him a new home. People did that often on the chicken-keepers’ listserv that we subscribed to. But there was a woman on that list that we knew, a culinary expert who taught canning and other homesteading skills and reminded me of Richard in her old-time, no-nonsense attitude toward animals. Some folks on the list — mostly town-dwellers — would write long concerned-sounding posts about their unwanted roosters, complete with fond nicknames and declarations that they would only release their troublesome boys to “good homes.” This lady would invariably reply with a simple suggestion: Kill him and eat him.

Such practicality, with no thought of apology, has a long history. Check out a nursery rhyme or a time-polished folk song: They speak of this relationship between humans and domestic animals and predators, a potent and paradoxical mix of fondness, admiration, need, and brutality. I can’t resolve this mess here.

But we did resolve it then. John caught the rooster — not an easy task — and we carried him across the yard to the big walnut tree, where he’d nailed a cone made of sheet metal. Held upside-down by the ankles, the rooster was calm. John put him into the cone with his head sticking out the small opening at the bottom.

Unfortunately, our knife should have been sharper. It took a few tries for John to decisively cut the artery, resulting in an ugly thirty seconds or so.

We invited all our friends who’d battled the rooster for us and set up a long table on the deck with flowers in vases. Rooster enchiladas with homemade tortillas: The meal was glorious, but John couldn’t really enjoy it. Can’t revise it.

By now, John and I have collected many stories of animal death. I am telling these stories here in part to try to work out where and why we draw the ethical lines that we do. But in truth we have told these stories orally, over and over, just for entertainment.

And there is another problem: The animals themselves are outside the realm of ethics; they’re unaware of our deliberations; they just die, and become nothing more than a collection of material, already beginning to disperse, one molecule at a time.

This is an analog to the fact that our children do not ask to be born. Because of our choices, they enter the world, and we then carry the heavy responsibility for the ethics of their upbringing. But the grace of nurturance is that it’s a process. You fail, but you can try again. You can revise.

I was a vegetarian for more than a dozen years, not particularly out of ethics, more out of distaste. My decision to stop eating meat was made without much deliberation. I’d never liked meat, and all my friends were vegetarians or vegans, and it was easy just to let it go.

Later, meat crept back in as I allowed myself small tastes of local beef, then chicken, from the farmer’s market. I realized that my lifelong aversion to flesh foods (as I once heard them flatly called) probably had something to do with the low quality of meat I’d been served as a child. Animals that had lived and died badly, factory-farm products, had been an ambivalent kind of nourishment when, one molecule at a time, they entered my blood.

I went back to carnivorism when I was pregnant. My midwife put it like this: You need to eat a lot of protein, because babies are made of protein. One molecule at a time.

Now that our babies are grown enough to ask questions, explaining death is part of our job as parents. The explanations sometimes involve our belief that food worth eating should have a known origin. Being involved with the sources of our nourishment means dealing with, sometimes dealing out, death. Last year we started raising chickens specifically for meat, and the conversation with the girls includes this: “Don’t get too attached to these chicks.”

Sometimes this is fully expected; other times the killing is unplanned, even hasty. When a blacksnake began showing up regularly inside our coop, we at first adopted a liberal policy of leaving it one egg each day. Blacksnakes are helpful in many ways, controlling rodent populations and, it’s said, keeping copperheads away.

Our knife should have been sharper.

But then John found the snake with a young chicken — a pullet — halfway down its throat. Snakes sometimes attempt to eat pullets, which die in their mouths; the snake then lies immobilized on the ground while it tries to swallow this huge, feathered prize. John lost his temper. We were trying to raise up the pullets as future layers, and this had a note of waste about it, since it seemed so unlikely that the snake could ever get the bird down. He fetched an ax and beheaded the snake, then threw both bodies in the compost pile.

Later that night, he was hit with regret to the point of tears.

Explaining such events, to ourselves or anyone else, is kind of futile, but through our stories, we have to try. The stories are part of how we come to know that an act we can’t revise must, at least, prompt a revival of a question.

Still, sentiment and tradition are always meddling in the ethics. Blacksnakes seem innocent, somehow; that was part of John’s grief. Possums, to name a different example, seem vicious, at least in relation to chickens. And John did kill a possum or two in defense of our hens before he decided to move that particular line. This wasn’t out of softhearted affection, but more out of rational conscience. We determined to give a pass to animals who are, after all, just trying to make a living. Our real job, we now believe, is to properly fortify the coop. Apologies to the animals who were harmed in the making of this policy.

Animals themselves do not apologize.

Two winters ago, after a week of snow cover, we found three dead chickens near the coop and a bunch of strange tracks all around, inside and outside the fence, and heading off into the woods, feathers strewn alongside.

John picked up the three dead birds by the legs and stacked them beside the coop; he was putting off burying them because of the frozen ground. Our surviving birds had escaped the fence in their panic and were scattered around the yard. Stupidly, we didn’t round them up after dark, but let them roost in bushes for the night.

So, of course, late that evening we heard a chicken in distress, just outside the kitchen window. We threw on the outside light and opened the deck door. And there it was: a bobcat in profile, pausing to look back at us, with our Speckled Sussex in its mouth. A beat; we all stood still.

And then I said to John, “Do you think we can save her?” In his socks, he ran into the snow. The cat dropped its prey and ran off. The hen died in John’s arms a few minutes later. He put on a big pot of water to boil.

The bobcat encounter felt like a visit from another plane. Though we’d hardly had time to observe it, I can still picture the cat silhouetted in our porch light glare, before the black curtain of night: a being of deep mystery that had descended from the mountains.

We were even more amazed in the morning when we realized that the bobcat had also taken away the original stack of three dead birds. We read that a male bobcat can provide for several families of females and cubs within his territory; perhaps this one was a father, on a mission to keep many offspring alive, delivering food to various dens hidden in the higher elevations. Feeling not a shred of doubt.

There is a strange hierarchy of animals within which we deploy our weapons and our notions.

The bobcat’s tracks seemed to vibrate with meaning and power; I kept going to look at them again and again, reconstructing its path, feeling privileged despite the loss of so many birds.

Though it was the most efficient killing machine ever to have visited our coop, we would no sooner have harmed that cat than I would have messed with the bear that waddled down the driveway one afternoon to visit our neighbor’s apple tree. We categorize bobcats as utterly wild even when they are helping themselves to domesticated chickens.

If our behavior is inexplicable to animals — those we nurture and those we destroy — their behavior also sometimes baffles us. Raccoons and possums kill chickens, take only the heads, and leave the carcasses to the remaining birds, who then eat them greedily.

Most of our dealings with animals seem, if not illogical, at least sort of bewildering. Taking my cat to the vet for human-style medical care immediately after murdering a snake. Eating eggs from a bird who eats her dead sister. Feeling lucky to see a woodpecker but annoyed by deer. That we decide, citing a kind of faux logic riddled with nursery-rhyme precedents , to end the life of a possum or to cherish the presence of wrens.

It seems that experience is the only real teacher; we try things and see how they feel.

Having killed the copperhead feels like a sickly mixture of pride and revulsion. The smell of the basement is now married to the dread of snakes; killing made me more fearful than I was before, seeing them in every stick and hose on the ground. To drive over a dead one in the road gives me a whole-body shiver. Doing violence, it now seems clear, has harmed me.

We’re all just improvising within a welter of situations. And the encounters will not stop anytime soon. There are stories I’ve left out here, and as I’ve been writing this, more stories keep taking place.

A month ago, I was home alone with Rosa and discovered a dead hen, her throat gouged open, tangled in the fence. Ah yes — we’d seen a hawk half an hour earlier; the raptor must have abandoned its prey when she fled into the netting and it couldn’t pull her free.

I touched the hen and she still felt warm under my fingers. She was a dead body, a ruined investment, a lost member of the household, another death for the list, another story for the repertoire. And she was a freshly slaughtered, otherwise healthy carcass. She was food. Saving her from being wasted felt like the imperative of the moment: one small way to atone for all the other decisions I’ve made, and been part of, that haven’t sat right, and can’t be undone.

So I found the sharp knife in John’s dresser and boiled a big pot of water. Then I laid the hen over a rock and decapitated her. In my somewhat flustered state I left the head lying on the ground.

By the time I came back for it, two hours later, the hen was gutted and bagged in the fridge, and some wild scavenging creature — someone looking for food, someone outside ethics, someone who tells no stories — had come and carried off her head.

* * *

Erika Howsare’s new book, How Is Travel a Folded Form?, is recently out from Saddle Road Press. She often posts photos of the ground at erikahowsare.com.

Editor: Dana Snitzky

#Longreads #Food #Ravishankar Sivasubramaniam #Erika Howsare

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