#octopoid

[asdaricus]

Another attempt at a primordial sea goddess

by Midjourney v6, 2024

[scribblingsorsomething]

A Flocktopus. This is a spot illo for my D&D/RPG-related blog and you can read about here.

[vermilllionsands]

Barclay Shaw

[squirmydads-creations]

Octopoids!

"This creature looks much like the ordinary Earth octopus, but with some dangerous differences. Octopoids are greedy, dishonest, and cowardly. They like treasure and human flesh, and will attack to get either. They do not enjoy danger, and will retreat when the going gets tough. They prefer ambushes and sneak attacks." - In the Labyrinth

The three smaller octopoids were initially part of my year end completion resolution, but I saw the two bigger ones on Etsy and decided to do the whole batch at once. I only completed them one day late but I'm glad I got the other two as they are much more detailed and interesting figures.

[hplovecraftmuseum]

H. G. Wells' famed story, THE WAR OF THE WORLDS was one of the pioneering expressions of Science Fiction - though that term would not be coined for decades to come. The novel saw publication in 1898. The alien invaders in the Wells' story are from the planet Mars. In subsequent tales by other fiction writers Mars would continue to be a commonly used origin for "little green men". Lovecraft of course knew about Wells and respected his work. Both the mechanical ships of the Martian invaders and the aliens themselves are depicted by Wells as having octopoid features. Did Wells' Martians inspire H. P. Lovecraft's conception of Great Cthulhu? Certainly the possibility is there though I don't recall reading Lovecraft ever admitting such. Below are pictured 2 illustrations inspired by THE WAR of the WORLDS. To the left is a bookmark being sold at Barnes and Noble, to the right is an illustration by Henrigue Alvin Correa. The Correa illo. certainly calls to mind Lovecraft's image of Cthulhu emerging from his tomb city as it rose from the bottom of the Pacific. HPL's Cthulhu, however, would dwarf any human in contrast to this picture. (Exhibit 467)

[anxious-local-cryptid]

CRYPTID-TOBER

October 16th, 2023

SPAIN'S ALIEN OCTOPOIDS

-

I look at it.

It's- it's a... an octopus? With human eyes and a frowning mouth...?

What the fuck is this?

It's small.

Less that 3 feet tall.

It slowly moves on its four tentacles.

It looks- it looks stupid.

And yet, I don't dare to disturb it, it's piercing eyes scrutinizing me, revealing too much intelligence to be messed with.

-

After many failed Inktobers, I decided to stop trying to follow prompt lists that always end up boring me, so I'm challenging myself to draw a cryptid per day for all the month of October!

No lists, no prompts, just me drawing random creatures I like!

How fun is that?

-

[cripplecharacters]

I have this xenofiction idea set in an alien solar system. One of the intelligent species ideas i had are octopoid-looking but terrestrial creatures that communicate via bioluminescence, and don't vocally communicate but do have hearing.

I started thinking about how blind members of this species would communicate. Does tactile sign language work if you only have identical tentacles and no fingers or toes?

Hi!

My first idea when you mentioned identical limbs was the Lorm alphabet. It's a kind of tactile communication (not really a sign language, more of a signed letter-by-letter transcript) that is virtually unknown outside Central Europe and Georgia (the country) in my experience. It requires a single limb from each person. For the Lorm alphabet, you tap and stroke the person's hand (or foot, I've seen it adapted to a double arm amputee too) and the amount of taps and their position (also line or circular movements) signal specific letters. Here's a video to visualize it from the French DeafBlind association (TLDW: two people using Lorm at great speeds at a conference).

What that means for alien creatures who have identical limbs is that there could be Aliorm alphabet where a specific spot on the tentacle signals a specific letter/syllable/binary code/etc and thus allow them to communicate. So if the aliens have some way to codify their bioluminescence-based language into a written system, they could use that.

Another option is to do another kind of non-oral language. Humans have ones that rely on hearing, seeing, and feeling, but aliens could have ones that are based on smell or taste. Especially if they original one is bioluminescence, I don't think it's too farfetched to imagine they could produce other chemicals that perhaps could be smelled as a form of alien olfactory language.

I'd personally love to see the Lorm alphabet in any sort of media ever, but considering you're writing about aliens, you have a lot of possibilities - there's no one single correct answer unless you find a blind alien to ask.

I hope this helps!

mod Sasza

[theresattrpgforthat]

Alright, I have a weird one. Are there any TTRPGS that revolve around Coral? That, or have coral as an important element of the game?

Oh my gosh my ask box apparently ate this for MONTHS and finally decided to spit this back. Let's see what we've got!

THEME: Coral

Descent into Midnight, by Rich Howard, Taylor LaBresh, and Richard Kreutz-Landry.

At its heart, Descent into Midnight (DiM) is a game about community, family, and hope. It's a tabletop roleplaying game that takes place in a technologically advanced aquatic civilization whose culture has never been touched by humanity. Bioengineering and psionic, or mental, powers allow the strange and varied species to communicate and interact with their surroundings no matter their physiology.

In the game, players take on the roles of guardians, defending their community from a physical, emotional, and even existential threat. The game focuses on the relationships between the guardians, the inhabitants they protect, and their internal struggles and dreams in the face of a corruption that threatens to change their world.

You can play as whatever you like in Descent in to Midnight, including fish, plants, even abstract concepts - so a shelf of coral isn’t really that much of a stretch. The playbooks (yes, playbooks, this is a PbtA game) are centred more about your personality, and what you look like is secondary. The game is designed to take a turn for the darker before it pushes towards hope, so I think your game experience will be different depending on whether this is a one-shot or a long-form campaign.

Delve Deeper, by Maik.

A complete new game of under-oceanic adventuring and exploration. 

Play as intelligent oceanic folks such as the cephaliin octopoids, the crustaciin crab-folk and the fish-like merfolk and explore the coral reefs, open seas and abyssal trenches in search for adventure, pearls and treasure.

You don’t play as coral in this game, but you’re certainly exploring it! Taking nods from games such as Troika!, Electric Bastionland, and Brave Zenith, this game feels solidly inside the OSR camp, but with a special love for the wacky and weird. If you want to have a particular connection to the coral reefs, you’ll likely want to play as a Merfolk, who build cities from the coral and rule as a matriarchal society. This game is full of lore, but not extensively so - it’s only 33 pages long in total. But I think you’ll probably come away from reading Delve Deeper with a pretty strong sense of what this underwater kingdom is like.

Reefs of Despair, by Zaftikat

You are a sea anemone, stuck firm in an ocean that will soon be inhospitable to you. Grapple with climate change as you explore fatalism and ennui.

Sea anemones aren’t coral but they’re kind of close right?

Now this game is neat. It uses popcorn as a resolution mechanic - how cool is that? You have to pop the popcorn in a stove-top vessel, rather than a microwave, because you have to count how many popcorn kernels pop at first pop - the more there are, the better your outcome. Apart from that, your character has two stats: Ennui and Fatalism. These stats rise and fall similar to the way stats raise and fall in Honey Heist - with a similar outcome if you get too high or too low, by ending the game. There’s also a third end state for what happens once you’ve popped all the kernels, but I’ll leave that one for folks who decide to download this game and read it.

The game also is donating proceeds to the Coral Restoration Foundation, so in a roundabout way, I guess it was about coral all along.

Other Games You Should Check Out

Bones Deep, by Technical Grimoire. (You should really check this one out.)

[pankurios-templeovarts]

Octopoid by Forest Rogers.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Resurface 36 - Resurface

Story to date in order (Tumblr / AO3)

Previous chapter

A kind of a build-up chapter for Virgil, because he’s decided to be brave and face something but that comes at a cost because I am incapable of letting them be fixed first time around. I also had to apply some very very minor whump to Scott just because it amuses me so to do and he was RIGHT THERE being a doofus and asking for it.

Hesitating to put this one out because there is so much good fic that’s appeared over the last week and I haven’t read it all yet but… I think if I don’t get this one out of draft mode I’m never going to properly focus on the finale chapter and I really need to get that done so I can finally post the art a fabulous someone did for me four months ago when I last thought I was nearly finished 🫣😬🙄

SO… here we go…

💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙

Virgil’s studio was recessed into the cliff which meant it was protected from the elements. It was accessible only via his bedroom and a key coded door meant it was protected…ish from marauding younger brothers.

Although a huge picture window dominated one wall, very useful for those sky paintings, this could and often would be shuttered at the press of the button, transforming the room into a haven over which he had unfettered dominion.

Advanced atmospheric regulation meant he could ensure the air it wasn’t too arid for sculpting or too damp to allow a painting to dry. An objectively impressive array of light fixtures popped out at various levels, the angle and tone of each completely customisable at the flick of a slider (or twelve) on his tablet, meant he had absolute control of what bounced off his surroundings into his eyeballs. And the sound system…

Well.

What would be the point of a soundproof room if you couldn’t occasionally crank it up to symphony orchestra brass section volume. Virgil had played the French horn in high school and fully appreciated the sensation of his ribcage vibrating when the trombones sat behind him got into their groove.

He was safe here.

And yet, he couldn’t settle. Everything felt, off. Scratchy. As if sand had got into a sensitive mechanism and no amount of oil would flush it out again.

Virgil tucked the sketchbook under his arm and got up to adjust the brightness of the overhead spots down a little and nudged the temperature control up another increment. He’d been fiddling with it all morning but couldn’t quite find the precise balance he needed. Turning his back on the easel stool, he sat down heavily on the couch, removed a pencil from behind his ear and glared at the page.

He’d thought it might be a good idea to sketch out a few anatomical poses to build the detail on top of… to save Scott having to hang around while he got the basics done. Despite having shut himself in here all morning, he’d barely got beyond sketching a vaguely humanoid shape. Perhaps he’d got a little more fixated on the angle of an arm than strictly necessary… in fact he’d roughed it out in so many positions his graphite brother was giving off distinctly octopoid vibes.

The real one had been popping in and out all morning, providing coffee and snacks and unspoken reassurance but now was Here and Getting Ready and Virgil was also supposed to be Ready do some Healing. Find Some Closure. Desensitisation. All that healthy stuff. He tried to ignore the creeping doubt as to whether he was, or would ever, in fact, be ready to…

“Can I make a suggestion?”

He jumped a little and dropped his pencil as Scott called out from behind Virgil’s bedroom door. He put the book to one side and crawled under his chair to locate it.

“Virg?” The door opened and he could imagine Scott peering around it, with all the darkness creeping up his neck and around his throat… his heart raced and his breath escaped in a tiny squeak.

Uuuuh… he wasn’t ready. Not ready at all. Maybe he never would be. Maybe this was… maybe he was just…

“Virgil, are you alright?”

Realising he’d frozen with his upper body wedged under the couch and that Scott was inevitably now aiming the Concerned Eyebrows at his behind, Virgil forced out an airy “All good, I just dropped my… my… err…” he huffed a fake laugh to cover up the gap. Stifled the panicky breathing… the word had gone. Just gone. He spread his fingers out, feeling the grain of the wood beneath him, sanded almost-but-not-quite smooth, and focussed on drowning out the whistle in his ears with an inane little tune Gordon was humming earlier. This was transient…

“Pen. I mean pencil. Pencil!!”

The floorboards vibrated a little as knees slid into view just beside him. Navy blue knees. No, not navy. Shade 1620 “Airforce Blue” - he had a tube of it on the easel. He squeezed his eyes shut. Hex 00308F. Several paint tubes, just in case. And some inks. Zero zero three zero eight eff. Navy blue was 000080. The three and the F somehow changed everything.

A hand on his shoulder, unnaturally tentative as they all still were around him. Still. He scrunched his eyes still tighter and tried not to let it bother him, he wasn’t the type to be bitter about being ‘Poor Fragile Virgil best-not-surprise-him-lest-he-freak-out-and-see-things-again…’ ok, he was still a little bitter perhaps. And being not very kind to himself either. He’d tell Scott off for that.

Scott…

He pressed his fingertips into the floor just enough to stop them shaking, just enough to hurt. As his neck and shoulders tensed in sympathy he felt his brother’s arms curl around him, holding him steady, keeping him from bumping his head on the wooden frame. Holding him steady, keeping him from sinking through the floor into who knew where… he dragged in a breath, cursing his vocal chords for the little whine that caused.

“I’m here. What do you need?”

“Pencil.”

The harmonic skitter of light wood rolling over heavy before the pencil was nudged up close to his hand and he grasped it like a lifeline.

He couldn’t open his eyes, not yet. He was terrified he wouldn’t be able to trust what he saw if he did.

He could feel Scott breathe, the weight of his arm. He could hear the repeated “It’s ok, I’ve got you.”

Yet both those senses had betrayed him before too. Only one had not. It had never lied to him, but, quiet and unshowy, it was easier to ignore if the others told him a better story.

Right now, the impersonal fog of the dry cleaning spray Grandma had used almost overwhelmed him. It was a white noise.

A grey noise?

He reached past the grey for something familiar, something safe - something to prove this wasn’t hollow. There was the ever-present scent of coffee on his brother’s breath and the subtle hint of super-shiny gel… no, he corrected himself, he’d upgraded to the pricier ‘sublime shiny’ recently… which he swore was better despite Virgil pointing out the identical ingredients, smell and, even taste… alright he might have taken the debate a little too far but when Scott had poked his tongue out at him Virgil hadn’t been able to resist giving him a sample. For science’s sake.

The look on his brother’s face had been spectacular.

He chuckled and a little of the dread melted away.

He still needed to sneak some down to Brains’ lab to run a chemical analysis actually…

“Virg? You with me, short stu…OOOFFF”

Scott had clearly ducked his head under the couch to try to see what was going on and the resulting clunk demonstrating he’d immediately forgotten that he’d done so vibrated through Virgil’s teeth.

“Scott! Your head!”

“Is fine. Thick skull, remember?”

“The thickest.” Eyes still resolutely closed, Virgil assessed his tone. It was light, but not the too-light tone Scott adopted when trying to conceal an actual injury from a brother… There was more than a hint of worry, obviously, which Virgil needed to Do Something About because he was painfully aware it was him causing it.

“Virgil, are you ok? What do you need?”

“I’m ok. I… yeah. I’m good.” He was. He could do this.

“Alright.” The audible skepticism was perhaps justified but Scott had clearly decided to let him call the shots today.

“I’m not criticising your process here but would it be easier to do the arting somewhere other than under the couch.”

Virgil grunted, which was frankly all the response the question deserved. Then, eyes tight shut he shuffled backwards. The sensitive skin just below the edge of his little finger brushed against Scott’s leg and he shivered as he recognised the fabric. Polywool. Strong but soft. Permanent military creases. More capable of withstanding a worried brother knee-sliding across a wooden floor than the string of ludicrously expensive but patently unScott-proof suit pants that the CEO wore to TI meetings and managed to destroy on a regular basis. But not robust enough for any kind of action. This was dress uniform. Just for show. He’d never have got in a jet wearing it.

But without it he’d never have got in that jet…

The voice of dread in his heart hissed at him. Virgil tried to squash it, but the edges were sharp and tried to steal his breath. He could feel his pulse begin to race again, echoing back through the thumb-tips he had pressed so firmly into the floor. No, that wouldn’t work. He knew this. He knew how to deal with this now. The hand on his shoulder tightened infinitesimally, lending him strength. So, he forced himself to take a slower breath and let himself acknowledge the thought. It was a logical fallacy, he knew that, but as the counsellor had advised he resisted the temptation to be angry with himself for thinking it. He could see where it came from. It wasn’t unreasonable or stupid for his subconscious to reach for something, anything to blame. It just wasn’t helpful. It wasn’t true.

What was true?

He’d come back. Scott had come back. He was here right now, humming Mom’s song as he rested his head on top of Virgil’s and stroked his arm.

Virgil opened his eyes. Brown floor. Black pencil. 1620... Scott’s legs. He raised his head a little, braced for the darkness…

Light blue?

Light blue shirt? Airforce shirt, yes, but not what he was expecting.

Scott interpreted his frown of confusion before he realised he’d formed it.

“I was going to suggest maybe I don’t wear the jacket just yet? I could, I dunno, just hold it or something. Till you’re used to it?”

Virgil realised he wasn’t blinking enough and pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets for a moment.

“Right. I… yes. I’m sorry I…” he huffed irritably “This is so ridiculous.”

“No it isn’t.” Scott squeezed his shoulder again. “And you told me not to say things like that.”

Virgil swallowed the impulse to point out that for Scott it was different. Maybe, after all, it wasn’t so different. In the absence of anything constructive to say he removed his hands from his face and made an attempt at a reassuring smile. It was going quite well until his eye was caught by a rush of movement as the hastily slung jacket slithered off the back of a chair and curled into a pile of darkness on the floor. He averted his eyes and returned his attention to his brother’s face.

“So, what do you want to do?”

Here, Virgil drew a blank. Beyond his request to paint Scott wearing the dreaded dress uniform, he was surprisingly unsure about what he wanted to do. He hadn’t got much past the idea to get himself, Scott and The Uniform in the same room and not go mad.

As the heap of fabric continued to noisily suck all the light from the room, he wasn’t sure the latter part was going as planned.

“I don’t… I don’t actually err…” he tailed off but the point had been conveyed.

Scott hummed again, but not in a musical way this time. That was the ‘IR-Commander-is-formulating-a-plan’ hmmmmm.

“We have all day... no need to rush anything. Do you want to go outside for a bit? It’s really nice out there?”

Outside was Scott’s go-to fix. If things were difficult, he did better in the open air… or at least somewhere with a clear view of the sky. Virgil suspected he knew why and tried not to think about that too much. What he did know was that it was when his brother tucked himself away - when he found a hidey hole, enclosed and dark - well that was when little brother’s alarm bell needed to ring. Outside was good.

Yet, Virgil knew Scott hadn’t suggested it for his own benefit this time. It wasn’t for the air but for the sun.

Virgil’s comfort instinct was more towards warmth. The flannel wasn’t purely a fashion choice after all. It didn’t matter where he was - snuggled in bed, melting his face off in the sauna, taking an excessively long hot shower, hibernating on a sun lounger - it was all good as long as the goosebumps were kept at bay. Gordon had long ago given up trying to persuade him to lower the cabin temperature of Two. If Virgil’s skin was warm and relaxed he had at least a chance of thinking clearly about everything else.

Outside in the sunshine sounded good. It had a decent chance of being better than here anyway, in the bowels of the earth where the darkness was closing in and an icy draft scraped across his face.

So Virgil nodded and allowed his big brother to steer him towards the doorway. Where he stood helplessly for a few moments as he realised the hand with which he’d reached for the handle was a white knuckled fist clutching a pencil for dear life… and he didn’t quite seem to know how to put it down. He shivered again.

Scott rushed around behind him, chattering away and collecting whoknewwhat, then took charge of the door-opening and, taking a firm grip on Virgil’s pencil-free hand, towed him up the stairs and out into the daylight.

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

[winged-self-indulgence]

The person who put Siren!Z in my head, you know who you are. Why would you do this to me?

You’ve never not known Z.

The thought spins through your mind, as idle and as careless as the salt-laden breeze that carries your little rowboat on the water’s surface. The ocean is calm tonight, an expanse of obsidian dotted with silver pinpricks that match the equally dark sky above. It’s late, and you should have been home by now. Should have taken hold of the thick twine that acts as the only thing preventing you from drifting further into the horizon, and pulled the wooden boat back to the lights and safety of the shoreline.

You didn’t though, and you won’t, because the creature on your mind is far more interesting.

He watches you from the other end of your boat, tanned arms folded loosely atop the bow and acting as a comfortable perch for a sharp chin. All of Z is sharp, from the tips of his frilled ears to the steel-trap mouthful of teeth that stretches wider when the siren catches you staring back. You can barely see his eyes beneath the tangle of waterlogged hair, but you’re certain that his gaze is similarly edged.

“Enjoying the view, Dove?” The question makes you blink, pulling you from your thoughts. Z smirks at you, jet-black scales catching the moonlight and illuminating the scarlet hues that tint their extremities. “Why don’t you come a little closer and get a better look, huh?”

You scoff and lean forward so you can make proper eye contact with him. “Nice try, Z,” you reply. “I thought sirens were supposed to lure humans to their deaths with beauty and song. Not harass innocent people trying to relax.”

“Aw, if you wanted me to sing to you then all you had to do was ask,” he coos teasingly. You’ve only heard Z sing in passing, and only under his breath. Scarcely more than a hum, the sound dances across the still water, smooth and melodious as it ripples through the darkness. It feels as though you and Z are the only beings out here, which is impossible. You know it’s not true, but somehow you can’t bring yourself to turn your head the scant 90 degrees it would take to spot the distant lights of the city at your back.

“Ah-ah! I’m not falling for that,” you point at Z, narrowing your eyes further when he meets your suspicious squint with an innocent pout. “Even if you weren’t a mythical creature known for killing and eating humans, I wouldn’t get into the water with you. You’d probably dunk me or something.”

The siren gasps and rears back, placing a webbed hand on his chest in an affectation of utter horror. “Perish the thought! You wound me, sweetheart,” he releases his grip on the gunwale, and you lean over to watch the long shape of him as it dives silently beneath the surface. You’ve never met another siren before, so you have no idea how large they are on average, but Z is huge by your own estimate. What he looks like below the waist is a mystery to you, but you suspect it’s something octopoid in nature judging by the shapes that twist and coil greedily out of the corner of your eyes.

Perhaps the rope isn’t the only reason you haven’t drifted off.  

Z reappears again, this time starboard and startlingly close to your face. You yelp and flinch backwards, almost toppling in entirely under his amused gaze. He watches you as if you’re a particularly fascinating seashell lying on the beach. The wind picks up for just an instant and you catch a glimpse of serpentine slits against a backdrop of crimson and gold.

“Are you sure?” He asks, and his voice a low cajoling rumble that wraps around you like dense silk. “The water's perfect you know, and I promise I'll keep you nice and safe. Besides, it’s not every day you get an invitation to swim with someone as charming as me.”

“Charming? Last week you tried to poison me!”

“On accident!” Z raised his hands in appeasement. “It was an accident! How was I supposed to know pufferfish was toxic to humans? You told me you considered them a delicacy!”

“I–!” You opened your mouth to refute him, and then closed it again. He had a point. You hadn’t clarified further because it had seemed obvious that anything so poisonous had to be carefully prepared to render it not poisonous. The entire fish had to be carefully killed, skinned, fileted, and cooked to remove the tetrodotoxin and other dangerous microbes. Not tossed into your lap still leaping and squeaking like an angry chew toy when you lazily mentioned that you were kind of hungry.

“And I already apologized,” the siren tilts his head, and you once again become hyperaware of the necklace around your throat. It’s almost a collar given how little chain there is, and from the center hangs a perfectly cut garnet. The kind of wealth that would be right at home in some imaginary pirate hoard. Curiosity rises in your chest as your fingers trace the edge of the gem, and Z must pick up on that. “Come on, sweetheart. You’ll never know what you’re missing until you dive in. I can show you things no human has ever seen. Hidden caves, sunken treasures, the most beautiful coral gardens…"

You hesitate, wavering between wariness and sheer curiosity. A single swim wouldn’t hurt, would it? You’ve known Z for…however long you’ve known him. If he wanted to do something to you, surely, he would have already done it, right? Even now, the only thing keeping you from the water is a rickety old rowboat missing one of its oars. Just a quick dip, and then back to shore. That’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.

Z’s returning cackle is enough to have you rethinking your agreement, but the siren refuses to let you backtrack or renege. “Aw, don’t get all shy on me now, Dove,” he teases, latching a hand around your wrist while the other cups your cheek, soaking your skin and clothes. You can taste salt at the back of your throat when he tugs you closer. “That’s it honey, just trust me.”

Then you’re in the water, and it’s nothing but bubbles and black and ice burning in your lungs. For a moment you’re not sure which way is up. You flail around, terror pushing a flurry of bubbles from your lips as you struggle to find Z or anything to hold on to. Where is he, where did he go, did he leave you to die?

You gasp out what you believe will be your final breath, only to suck in a lungful of cool air. A bubble surrounds you, paper-thin and yet impenetrable when you press your palms against the glasslike surface. High, high above you can see the underside of your boat bobbing far away, now barely bigger than your fingernail.

What…what the hell…?

Finally.

The voice – it must be a voice, though you swear you didn’t truly hear it inasmuch as you simply perceived it – fills your mind. Avarice and adoration drip from every syllable. Glee wraps around every letter. A familiar cackle skitters up the back of your neck. Your bubble moves, buoyed by something dark and shimmering and tinted red that spins you around until you come face to face with the creature you thought you knew.

You have never met another siren before, so you have no idea how large they are on average, but Z is titanic. Eyes like fire remain fixed on where you kneel, doll-like and helpless in the palm of his hand. A body that stretches far into the abyss, where even the sunlight wouldn’t dare to venture. Jaws that part for a tongue longer than you are tall, tracing across teeth bigger than your torso.

Don’t worry, my little human. I said I’d take good care of you.

[asdaricus]

A sea goddess of sorts, using Brom as a style reference

by Midjourney v6, 2024

[redscharlach]

Tentacle time at Leadenhall Market, London, courtesy of an installation by Hoxton Monster Supplies.

I can’t decide if it’s one octopoid underbeast coming up from the bowels of the earth, or two octopoid underbeasts who came through the wrong portals and have ended up yearning at each other from neighbouring pockets of reality.

[darkersoul]

can you talk about the difference between hastur and the king in yellow because i swear every source i look at gives me a different answer on where the line is

This is very complicated on a meta level so here we go:

The King in Yellow was a collection of short stories by Robert W Chambers. In this collection, The King in Yellow is a play that, after reading, invades your life by changing your perception of reality. Characters talk about the character in the play named The King In Yellow.

One character hallucinates being attacked by the King who refers to himself as "The living God." However, this doesn't actually hold too much weight on the King being a god in the original stories, as the entire story where this event happens centers around a singular very religious man and the church he attends.

The name Hastur is mentioned in one passage in the entire book, a list of stars implying that Hastur in the original stories was just meant to be the name of a fictional star. The name itself was borrowed from a story by Ambrose Bierce where Hastur is a benevolent shepherd god.

Moving on to quite a while later, in HP Lovecraft's "The Whisperer in Darkness," the aliens in that story make reference to various elements of the King in Yellow as well as the name Hastur, but once again, there is nothing in this passage indicating that Hastur is a god.

Now we get to Derleth. One of HPL's protoges, Derleth used the name Hastur for a god of his own creation, an octopoid being that lurks in the lake of Hali in the city of Carcosa. Besides the location in which this god lives, Derleth's Hastur has no connection to The King in Yellow.

Finally, we reach the Call of Cthulhu Scenario "Tell Me, Have You Seen The Yellow Sign," in which the author submits that The King in Yellow is an avatar of the Derleth interpretation of the God. And due to the influence the RPG has on the Mythos as a whole, the association stuck.

So, yeah, Hastur and the King in Yellow being the same being happened nearly a century after The King in Yellow was created.

[toweroftickles]

❤️ Valentine's Day Morsels ❤️

(A Whole Month Late 😅)

These were all supposed to be done for the holiday itself, but obviously that didn't happen. The problem is that I care way too much about my writing and try too hard to make it actually good. That's not why anybody reads this crap. Anywho, I've been in an anomalously sappy, romantic mood lately and whipped up some sugary, snack-sized tickle drabbles involving a few of my all-time-favorite (canon) fictional couples. :) Hope these are sweet enough! Disclaimer: this is all obviously just meant to be cute, silly fun.

Link/Zelda (utilizing "Wilds" era)

Whenever Purah developed a revolutionary new piece of tech for the Hylian Royal Family, she of course needed a volunteer to test it out. At those times, Princess Zelda was always on-hand to make sure she had one. And it was usually Link.

The Sheikah techie was putting the finishing touches on a new observation platform propulsion system...she called it a "Skyview Tower." The Hero of Hyrule stood in the center of the device, bracing for the upcoming vertical rush. It was somewhat against his will that he was being held in place by six clinking, clanking Guardian arms. He felt like a prisoner in the teeth of a hungry beast as they hooked him to the machine, but Purah just clicked away happily on her control Pad.

“How ya doin, Link? You comfy?” she asked him. He nodded reluctantly. "Ok, I'm gonna launch you in 10...9..."

Suddenly, at the sight of Link ensnared in the repurposed robot arms, Zelda bounced up and down and excitedly tapped her compatriot on the shoulder. “Oh! Oh! Purah, wait!”

Everything paused. The princess knelt and whispered excitedly into the inventor’s ear.

What they were talking about, Link couldn’t decipher, but he saw that in the midst of Zelda’s sentence, Purah’s smile stretched bigger and bigger. After a breathy exchange, both ladies were giggling to themselves. Uh-oh. He recognized that energetic sparkle in Purah’s eye…that only happened when she knew her tests were going to have “funny” results.

Beep. Four of the Guardian arms remained holding Link's wrists and ankles still, but the other two raised up and took on new purpose. The octopoid metal tendrils zipped around his torso, snapping their claws like hungry snakes. Their laser sights booped to life and swam their little red eyes all over him...targeting certain areas...and once Purah pressed that button again, they dove right in for the attack.

The little pincer claws skittered and tap-danced under his arms, across his stomach, between his ribs. At first he panicked. Then he grinned. Squirming and struggling, Link began to laugh.

“HHHHeh…Heheh…Heh-Heh Ha-Ha Ha-Ha! Z-Zeld…Heh! Haha!”

"See, I told you he was ticklish," the princess chuckled.

"Oooo, and you were right! This is fun! Look at him dance!"

"Heh-Heh, Heh-Heh Ha...Haha-Heh! Nn-Heh!" Bolts of Gerudo lightning didn't make Link jump around this much. It wasn’t until Zelda sauntered over and tickled him herself that the machine finally wound down.

And just like that, being shot out of an untested military-grade cannon didn't seem so bad.

******

Parzival/Art3mis (Ready Player One)

Spring Center Fortress was always a fun place in the OASIS for testosterone-soaked one-v-one games. Each arena in the cubist coliseum was a giant trampoline, regardless of size or layout, and combat was fast and frantic when no one could stand still. Only true acrobats thrived in the chaos there. Entering one of the battle boxes, Parzival and Art3mis removed their shoes and jackets and stepped barefoot onto the bouncy black floor.

"Choose your weapon, sir." Arty's declaration of war was cheekier than usual. She smirked, already sure of her victory, and make a flashy show of unveiling a fully-2D Airbender staff. Rare gear.

Parzival eagerly cycled through the digital blue pockets of his inventory...lots of options to choose from. Neither he nor Arty were pulling admin privileges and just dropping rare junk into their accounts; this loot had to be earned like everyone else’s. Oh, there was a good one...

"Toymaker Energy Bo," he finally announced. The glowing green stick popped from hammerspace and into his hands, extending four frog-like fingers from its tip that snapped and pinched at their target.

Art3mis nodded. She looked impressed. "Spy Kids 3D. Nice."

At the sound of the buzzer, a blade of cartoony wind sliced through the room and nearly split Parzival's staff in two. Their weapons clacked together as the couple danced and dodged on the springy terrain...the fight was a wild flurry of flips, leg sweeps, slides and parries. Dodging a strike at her knees, Art3mis bounced into a full backwards aerial somersault, a mere hair's breadth away from the Game Over bo's snapping claws. Just as she landed and stumbled back, the very tips of metal fingers pulled at her body, grazing against four particular spots along her torso that they couldn't quite snare.

One, on the right side of her neck. One deep in the hollow of her left armpit. One just above her hipbone. And one smack in the center of her right side, under the ribcage.

“BAH!!” Art3mis nearly slipped on the undulating floor, swiveling on her heel and pointing her finger at Wade, and had to catch her balance against the back wall. Her staff zipped off on an air current and glided away across the stadium. Disarmed. In her most stern, commanding voice, the Goddess of the Hunt blurted “Hey! No. ...Z. No tickling."

"Hey, come on, it was an accident," Parzival laughed.

For a moment everything was still, both anticipating the other's next move. But he'd seen the flash of panic on her face...blood was in the water now. Her eyes darted to her glider. Slowly, Parzival raised his staff again. Its four-pronged hand spun around and wiggled in Arty's direction, closer and closer, and the sight made her jaw clench.

“...God, sometimes I love these Boot Suits.”

“Wade, no. N...HHHA-Ha Ha-Ha! …Ng-Heh! Nuh...nonono, God n-HNN!!"

Art3mis' arms contracted, trying to block the ravenous mechanical fingers, but that only pinned them even more snugly to where they could feast on her ticklish ribs. Her trembling knees buckled. Soon she was wrestled flat onto her back and rolling around atop the rubbery floor, her leg weakly kicking at the air. The Spy Kids staff no longer attacked her...it was Parzival's own fingers that she felt clawing beneath her loose crop-top, squeezing her belly until the cackles burst out of her. The two were bouncing and wrestling and laughing until the floor squeaked. Streaks of charcoal soot blackened her soles…the trampoline's worn surface had almost-literally painted a target on her bare feet, a target which Parzival didn't ignore for long. Arty was surprised by how hard she was cracking up...and, despite the soreness in her cheeks, by how much fun she was having.

“What, what’s the matter? Ya n00b. Stop laughing.”

"Ha-Ha Ha-Ha! Uncle! Uncl-hle!"

The dull fingernails that had been scribbling beneath her toes retreated. Arty was free again. Up and down, the trampoline reverberated to the rhythm of her diaphragm's spasmodic wobbles. Even after all this time, it was still an out-of-body experience, to catch one's raspy breath as a digital avatar...when she was worn out inside the OASIS, her real-world meat puppet followed suit. Slowly she and the trampoline both calmed. She sat up, folding her arms across bent knees, and her middle finger dabbed at her eyelash.

"Ha......Ahhhhhhh Ha Ha....Huheh...Okay, okay, you got me," she chuckled. Her toes clenched up against the rubbery ground. She tried to affect a serious expression, but that wide-eyed grin of hers just wouldn't dissolve. “But don’t do that again!”

"Eh, can't make any promises," Z taunted, helping her stand. For that, he received a playful punch in the shoulder.

Like most of the OASIS, there were no real rules in Spring Center Fortress. The important thing was how you won.

******

Aang/Katara (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

Waterbender training was going...as Sokka would put it...swimmingly. Aang and Katara stood ankle-deep in the waters of Chameleon Bay, practicing their stances. Liquid swirled around them, rising and falling like tides at their command.

"How's your octopus form?" Aang's teacher asked him.

Quickly, Aang struck the proper pose and focused. A stream of ocean foam snaked upward into the air and corkscrewed multiple arcs around his body. With a twist of his arm, the water coalesced into a near-solid tentacle, its rippling surface smoothed out, and he made it sway back and forth in a friendly wave. Katara giggled. She, meanwhile, was focused on maintaining six hovering spheres of water that orbited around a rock in front of her. Gesturing with her palm, she relaxed into a simple Single Whip posture, her right knee bent and arms outstretched, and the water balls merged into a lash. She was focused and precise...and totally oblivious to what her pupil was doing.

Guided by Aang's slow dance, a water tendril slithered across the bay and breached the surface. As soon as Katara wasn't looking, its tip rose up and wiggled against her tummy - right next to her belly button.

"Ah! Haha…Aang, stop it!" Laughing, she jumped in place and covered her ticklish spot with her hand. Instantly the Avatar’s octopus construct fizzled into droplets and splashed the flowing sea below. He stood there all sheepish and rubbed the back of his tattooed head, grinning like a buffoon.

"Heh...sorry. You were wide open." Aang couldn't escape his own mischievous nature. He was 12, after all.

There was a brief and fearful pang in his stomach...is Katara mad at me? But her smile was the brightest he'd seen on the waterbender's face all week. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he could've sworn she was starting to blush. Both benders just laughed shyly and turned to face the sandbank once more.

"Alright, let's keep going."

******

Gwen/Miles (Spider-Verse)

The multiversal headquarters of the Spiders didn't just have a lockup, a science lab, and a cafeteria (no bagels allowed). There was also quite a museum of trophies and mementos gathered from past battles, defeated villains, and fallen heroes from all across the cosmic web. It was like Batman's basement on the scale of the MoMA. And Gwen couldn't wait to show Miles all she'd learned there.

Clasping one another's hands they dashed through the halls, often pulling eagerly in opposite directions. Miles was a kid in a candy store, and every time his eyes lit up, it reminded Gwen of a thousand reasons why she liked him. After passing the wrecked granite namesake of one "Big Wheel 5000 BC," the two skidded to a stop, lured by an exhibit that stood out from the rest: a single hand, perched atop a pedestal.

An Infinity Gauntlet, this was not. It was a cheap canary opera glove, with long, fluffy white feathers glued to its digits in lieu of fingernails. The plastic plaque beneath declared in full voice to the pair:

“‘The Tickler?!’" Frog-mouthed in shock, Gwen doubled over, laughing wildly. “No. Freaking. Way."***

"Are you serious right now? Ha…Wow, they just get lamer…”

"Heheh-Heh! Ok, ok; you’ve gotta hear this: 'Crude homemade weapon retrieved from Whedon Winslow, Earth-57780.' Some name... 'Failed stand-up comedian who turned to larceny. Distracted victims and pursuant Spider Society with...'"

But Miles wasn’t paying attention to Gwen's narration. He was busy cracking his knuckles and reaching toward his distracted girlfriend from behind, trying to project confidence from a playful smile that was actually quite shy. He was gonna get her so good, he encouraged himself.

In the midst of Gwen's sentence, kneading fingertips hooked right into her sensitive, squishy waistline.

Her gasp was loud and shrill. The girl almost popped like a chocolatey toaster pastry, but a right forearm encircled her collarbone and held her firmly in place. Before she knew it, Gwen was immobilized in a tickle hug and fell straight into Miles' lap as the two collapsed to the floor.

"AH!! *gasp* Huhuh-Huhuh Heheh! *gasp* Ah Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha! St-HOP ihit! We're supposed to be quiet!!"

She screamed and elbowed Miles in the stomach, but he maintained his hold. Then she tried pulling on his wrists. No good. Gwen was the most squirmy, wiggly human being Miles had ever seen; champion swimmers didn't kick their legs as hard as she did. He might as well have been trying to hold onto a hagfish in an oil spill…even with sticky fingers, it was a challenge! But watching her smile and laugh like this was so worth it.

“Wait, hold up a minute!” Miles laughed as if Gwen would actually obey him (not that she had much choice). One THWIP! of spider-silk from his wrist, and The Tickler’s glove was yanked right off its perch and into his hand. Miles didn't put it on...all he needed to do was hold one of the fingers and wield the feather like a wand.

The quills prickled like thousands of tiny needles against the nape of Gwen's goosebumpy neck...right at the signal source from whence her Spider-Sense was screeching. Any measure of defiance left in her crumbled to dust. Both of her palms slapped over her face...anything to hide it from Miles. She could have fried an egg on her cheeks for how they sizzled.

“VVVVVVVFF-EEEE!!! *Yeek!* OmigodNO - N-no feath-hers, oh my GAWWD, no feahehther-her-hers…*SNORT* AHHHMilesstoppit!” she whined and cried. The feather stroked down across her collarbone, her shoulder blade, under her armpit...

It wasn't long before one of the nigh-innumerable Spider Society horde noticed the sound of embarrassed squeals echoing throughout the gallery and swooped in to investigate. But when this particular Peter Parker entered the hall, it was found vacant. Nothing but various museum exhibits, all undisturbed in their places. And so he left.

Miles, as it turns out, had been practicing a new technique. He wasn't the only person that he could turn invisible.

"Shhh!" he whispered. Gwen was absolutely trembling in his lap, even though the tickling had stopped - it took two hands to stifle her uncontrollable belly laughs. There, with his arms around her and feeling her heartbeat against his, a warmth washed over Miles. There were a million worries flapping around inside his brain...his future with the Spiders, his parents, and he & Gwen...was it right, how they felt about each other, what they were doing? But for a few quiet moments, where nobody could see them, none of that mattered.

He almost kissed the top of her head, but got too antsy.

Maybe next time.

******

*Note: Actual Spider-Man villain. Seriously. I did not make this up.

Victoria/Misto (Cats 2019)

The Egyptian Theater was warm and sleepy that evening. The old sun-shaped stage prop created the perfect napping spot for a young Jellicle, and the white cat lolled blissfully in its hollowed-out cradle. Her left leg dangled down off the side, pendulous and swaying like a metronome, right next to her boyfriend’s nearby head. Mr. Mistoffelees was kneeling there on the floorboards directly beneath, fumbling with a deck of cards.

Victoria peered over the side of her perch and smiled, unnoticed. Just laying beside her magician (well, a bit higher and to the right of him, anyway) carried her off in a cozy bubble of comfort. She just felt content around him. Her hands couldn’t reach to pet him…not from this angle…so instead, she held her slender leg out and, with her big toe, traced gentle crescents behind his ear.

His ear twitched. At first Misto instinctively ducked away from the impromptu scalp scratch, inquisitive chuckle aside ("Heh...what are you doing?"), but he soon came around to her affection and began to purr. His head rolled around across his shoulders, his back arched, and his ears flopped and wagged. Tori could tell the scritches were making him happy. Tufts of black fur shot up like grass between her marble toes, bristling the ball of her foot back and forth, until out of nowhere it made her shiver and pull away.

"Hmhm! Hmf..." she giggled sweetly through her nose. "Your fur tickles."

The tuxedo cat grinned and looked up at her. There was his opening. "Oh, it does?" he taunted. "It does?" With one quick yank, Victoria’s foot was down near his chest, and she was laughing and gripping the sunbeams with all her might. In her meek struggle for balance, that varnished wooden nest fought back with bumpy scrapes against her stomach and her thighs. Taking hold of his tail in his left hand, Misto started painting broad brushstrokes across Victoria’s foot with its fuzzy black tip, and she immediately began to fidget. “What about this?” Misto asked her.

"Heehee-Hih! *gasp* Hn-Hih! Th-hat's not fair, I'm stuck...Hee! It tihickles," the snow-white kitten’s jubilant squeaks bubbled up from inside her. Her ears flattened shyly. Why did this kind of thing happen to her so much? She didn’t hate being tickled, but lately it felt like she’d become something of a Jellicle magnet. If this kept up, she’d have to start wearing her ballet flats 24/7.

Almost as soon as it started, Misto let her go, and Victoria scurried her legs back up inside that little hovel, before turning around and facing him once more. She loved the chalky pink way his nose blushed, and that awkward, crooked smile of his, the one that popped up whenever he finally let himself be playful. He loved how her persimmon lips stood out against her face, and the way her head dropped timidly down to her shoulders when she giggled.

Soon the two were snuggling in each other's arms inside the heart of the sun, just waiting for the Jellicle Moon to rise again.

******

Vi/Caitlyn (Arcane)

The papery bandages around her forearms chafed against Vi's chin. Her elaborate clockwork tattoos peeked out through the rips on her sleeveless blue-hooded top. Pink-and-orange sunset streaked through the nearby glass and bronzed her cheeks. She still wasn’t used to laying on a bed as big and comfy as Caitlyn’s.

"I haven't had a back rub in...probably forever," she mused, still a little apprehensive about this kind of intimate contact.

"It's really relaxing, I promise,” Caitlyn reassured her.

Warm palms kneaded into the Trencher girl's scapula. Spindly fingers performed slow, smooth taffy-machine pulls on the muscles between Vi’s shoulders and neck. At first she resisted, but slowly surrendered to the touching and let herself sink deep into the soft mattress.

“Wow, your…you’re rock solid,” Caitlyn murmured, impressed. Under that jacket, Vi’s physique felt even buffer than it looked. And that intricate body art…Caitlyn was so busy admiring that she neglected to notice how her hands were moving faster, stroking in tandem with her nervous pulse.

Vi froze. Her fingers skittishly drummed against the bedsheet. Everything about Caitlyn's technique was wrong in precisely the wrong ways: the thumbs were rubbing a little too gently down her lats, the fingernails squeezing a smidge too firm between her ribs. It was clumsy, inelegant... ticklish. All it took was one especially-wrong nerve hit, and when she could no longer keep her mouth shut, Vi’s whole body shuddered.

“DAH, Huhuh-Heheh! Hey…watch it,” she laughed. "Careful back there."

“Sorry,” Cait replied, smirking. Her hands plunged back down.

Oh come on…not again. Vi felt like a grape in a wine press when twisting thumbs pushed down hard on her obliques. Her lumbars. Her hipbones. Every knot in her lower back. Her eyes widened, and all the air in her chest squeezed out from between her lips like a squished football deflating.

“Mmff…PFFFFTHnhn!” More wriggles. The bed whined from the kicking lower legs that thumped against it. Caitlyn was at a befuddled junction halfway between offense and joy, between pouting and grinning. Vi always made things difficult for her.

“I am trying to do something nice for you; could you just hold still?”

“GRRRR, stop tickling me!” Vi snapped.

No apology this time. Only a playful tsk, and then the massage resumed.

The fluttery rubbing sensation drilled down through Vi’s back until it scorched the inner wall of her stomach. Her frustrated, reddening facial features scrunched themselves tightly together. She repeatedly slapped the nearby pillow with the ferocity of a grunge drummer. If her bared teeth ground any harder together, her gums would’ve bled.

“NGK! Nooo-hoho; Hng-Hn! Gkkkk…Sss-sss-st-hop i-hih-hit…! Kkkkk!!” The redhead choked on desperate glass-shard sniggers that scraped against the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t stop her angry giggling, and it drove her nuts.

"C-hut it ouuut, I'm gonna punch you!!!" That one wasn't a threat; it was a genuine, heartfelt warning.

Caitlyn couldn’t help but flash a buck-toothed grin...that was probably enough, for both their sakes. She drew back her wiry hands and watched Vi's quivering shoulders slow down, listened to her breath steady itself.

"Ugh...What the hell, Cait?"

“Sorry, it wasn't on purpose. You’re just…I think it’s very…*ahem* …" Now it was the cop's turn to be flustered and rosy-cheeked. "...adorable. How frustrated you get when you’re feeling ticklish.”

Caitlyn was expecting a tease, a playful slap, a snarky reprimand...some kind of retaliation...especially when she saw that smirk in the corner of Vi's mouth. But instead of payback, she received a pleasant surprise: Vi sat up, turned around, and shoved her lips into Caitlyn’s so hard and fast that the blue-haired Enforcer almost fell backward.

...Perhaps she'd have to try this again soon.

******

Kiki/Tombo (Kiki's Delivery Service)

“Hey, Kiki, I was wondering…can witches call their broomsticks to them like a magnet?” Tombo asked studiously, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He and Kiki were relaxing on Ursula’s front porch with glasses of fizzy lemonade, the sticky kind that makes your spit hurt when you drink it. It was a foggy spring morning and the crows were flapping in the damp emerald lawn.

“Hm…I don’t know; I’ve never tried,” she observed. Spying her broom across the clearing, rested against a tree stump, the young courier witch reached out her right hand, poked her tongue out, and concentrated. Unfortunately, Star Wars hadn't been invented yet, so it didn't occur to her to make an Empire Strikes Back reference.

At first her flying stick merely turned. It rocked in the crook of the tree’s roots, but nothing more. Maybe she wasn’t concentrating hard enough? But no sooner had the idea entered her mind than the crude vehicle hoisted itself horizontally, hovered a few feet off the grass, and charged. An invisible hand threw the broom at Kiki like a chucked javelin, and it was soaring straight for her face.

"Whoa! Look out!" Tombo immediately sprung into action, and his quick dive shoved Kiki out of the way just in time for him to take the blow. The broom's handle shot into one sleeve and out the other, dragging the junior aviator off the porch and tossing him headlong to the ground before it finally twitched its last.

“Oh my gosh, Tombo! Are you ok?!” Panicking, Kiki rushed to pull her friend up out of the grass. The broom handle was caught against his neck, parallel to the red-and-white stripes on his chest. He wobbled a bit when he stood...a few green stains on his knees...but was otherwise unscraped.

"Um, yeah, I'm fine. Just a little crooked here," he reassured her, swinging his arms around like a weathervane.

“Oh, thank goodness...Heh...you know, you kind of look like a scarecrow that way."

She was right...he did...but the boy’s gangly T-pose did nothing to deter Ursula’s avian buddies. In fact, right on cue, several of them flocked to his outstretched forearms. One even pecked at his ear.

“Heh-Heh! Guess I’m not a very good one!” The two shared a chuckle, before Kiki helpfully flapped her arm and shooed the birds away. "Hey, thanks. Can you help me get this out? My arms are kinda stuck."

But Kiki wasn't interested in helping right away...his pose had given her other ideas. Before Tombo knew it, Kiki's fingers were strumming up and down his sides with gleeful abandon. She kept pinching his belly and in between his ribs and affectionately watched him wiggle.

"Heh! Heheh-Haha! Hey, cut it ou-howt! Heh! You know I'm ticklish!" Tombo's smile was wide and sunny and dorky as he jumped around in place. Kiki, meanwhile, was positively giddy. She only tickled for a few more seconds...any longer and she would've gotten much too embarrassed...before carefully extricating the misbehaving broom from Tombo's sleeves and throwing it out into the field. Crisis averted.

"Heehee-Hee! I'm sorry, I couldn't help it!"

The boy brushed his sandy hair back and grinned broadly as the two sat again. "Well, you know I can't just let you do that!"

Kiki glanced down. Slowly...making sure to stretch out each moment of tension to its unbearable limits...Tombo was reaching his hands towards her, performing a spidery midair dance with his fingers.

The teen witch was already in a fit of helpless giggles and starting to blush. “Hmhm! Oho no, please don’t do it…” But instead of fleeing or curling up like an armadillo, as Tombo expected, Kiki bent over and quickly slipped her shoes off…first left, then right…and then lifted her arms skyward. “Heehee! Oh my gohosh, no, please…please don't...”

Suddenly, an old door hinge groaned. Bare feet creaked on the cold grey porch step. When Kiki & Tombo turned to look at the source of the noise, there stood Ursula, grinning and tapping her fingers on a steaming blue coffee mug.

"Hey, what are you two doing out here?"

*******A Few Seconds Later*******

"AHHH, Ha-HAAAAA Haha! *gasp* Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha!" Kiki screamed.

"Heheh...Heh! Hng…Heheh-Haha Haha...Hng! Heh! Stop!" Tombo's turn.

Ursula was pinning both of her young friends down to the floorboards, aggressively wiggling her nimble fingers across their bellies and watching them squirm & kick in sync together. “Uh-ohhh; look out! I'm the world's most evil tummy tickler!” She laughed, they laughed; Ursula was clearly relishing her position.

That is, until Kiki and Tombo managed to grab the artist’s ankles amid their struggle, tripped her up, and tickled her feet with her own paintbrushes until she was completely out of breath from laughing.

Kiki often wound up in tickle fights with her friends back home. But she couldn't remember one that was this much fun.

******

Robin/Maid Marian (Robin Hood)

Cops and robbers, such as they were, didn't exist in 12th-century Britannia. So "Robin Hood vs. Prince John" was the game of choice for the rabbit brood. Skippy was playing Robin Hood, of course, which meant Sis & Tagalong were his cohorts. Maid Marian volunteered to be Prince John, so Lady Kluck had to be the Sheriff. That left Robin himself to portray the benevolent King Richard, and Toby Turtle as Sir Hiss.

“A pox on the phony king of England!” Robin cheered. At his command, his noble servants were chasing the “Prince” all over the castle courtyard. They all ran in wild circles over and over, laughing merrily, until Skippy and Tagalong managed to hop up and grab Marian by the wrists. The bunny siblings dangled off of her like bracelets swaying in the breeze, and she bent at the waist as she tried to keep walking.

"We've gotchu now, Prince John!" crowed Skippy. "Give up?"

"Oh no, what-EVER shall I do?" Marian giggled in her most over-dramatic performance yet. "Sir Hiss, seize these scoundrels!"

Toby's head - SHLUNK - sucked back into his shell. He certainly wasn't going to help. Eager to catch their dastardly villain, Sis took matters into her own hands. Jumping in front of the pack, the bunny girl reached up and pawed at the struggling Maid Marian's belly, and Skippy joined the fun by grabbing her side. Immediately, the vixen broke into breathy peals of soft, melodious laughter.

"Ohoho no...Oh no-ho-ho-ho! *gasp* Noooo; anything but tickling, Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha!"

She knew full well that a plea like that would only goad the rambunctious tykes on, but if she were being honest, she was having far too much fun to care. This was as close as she'd get to playing with kids of her own, at least for a little while. Letting loose an enthusiastic yip, Marian fell into the dandelions, and the wrath of the rabbit swarm rained down upon her.

A sextet of bunny hands and paws were grabbing and squeezing and scratching at her tummy. Their little fingers pulled through creases in the silky dress she wore; their feet slid and stomped along her sides and made her wiggle. The kids' squeaky machine-gun giggles were very contagious, and the already-helpless fox couldn't stop laughing herself silly. She jostled and squirmed and had to push Tagalong off of her stomach.

“Ah-Ha Ha-Ha! *gasp* Help! K-Klucky-Hee…Ro...Robin, Heh-Heh-Help!”

"Bawk! Milady! Yer noicest drrrrress!" Klucky honked.

Robin himself was busy chuckling at Marian’s misfortune. Quite clever of them, he thought. They'd make Merry Men yet. His yellow bycocket cap shifted atop his vulpine ears - and suddenly, his thoughts turned to the feather that adorned it. He removed the hat, pulled the long scarlet plume from its sheathe, and twisted it between his fingers, amused. "Ah, there we are..." the outlaw remarked to no one in particular, as if he'd made some unexpected discovery.

Kneeling down, Robin grasped Marian's right ankle and gingerly lifted her leg up out of the weeds. With that roguish, wry smile and an absentminded hum, he stared right into her eyes and swooshed the feather back and forth across the bottom of her foot.

"Oh!! *gasp* Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha!! *gasp*hic* Haha-Ha! Oh dohon't, please, I...I d-hon't think I can stand any more, Ha-Ha Ha!” she cried. Pools of pink stained her cheeks. Her long eyelashes were dripping wet.

"Hmm, I think the prisoner has learned their lesson, don't you, kids?" Robin declared. Despite a few protests and "awwww"s, everyone backed off, leaving the exhausted Marian alone in the grass to catch her breath. "The Prince has been vanquished!!"

"Long live Robin Hood!" Skippy cried, holding his wooden sword triumphantly aloft, cheered on by his adulating sisters. While the kids danced in a circle singing "Prince John the Worst" off-key, Robin traipsed through the flowerbed over to his lady fair and tenderly offered her his palm.

"Oh, my hero; you've come to rescue me," Marian sighed, still all atwitter and breathless and fanning herself.

But instead of taking his hand, Marian pulled Robin down into the sunny spring field with her. Robin sent her his most disarmingly handsome smolder, and when she shied away, he slowly kissed her cheek. Their embrace was perfectly accompanied by the sounds of Sis and Tagalong giggling at them in the background...and of Skippy pretending to vomit.

"Blech!" he mumbled. "...Sissy stuff."

******

Neytiri/Jake (Avatar)

Neytiri sat up and slowly pulled her feet from beneath the powdery white sand. Infinitesimal shards of salt and earth and coral and glass sifted through the gaps between her toes with a quiet hiss. Pandoran beaches were very soft.

Jake emerged from the water and strode over to her resting spot. The sand was so smooth that he didn't even leave footprints; the pale flecks of dust simply clung to his body. "You think we should get back?" he asked her. "Mo'at's probably gonna be pissed."

"Mmmm..." Neytiri sighed contentedly and closed her eyes. "Not yet. I am too relaxed to move."

“Well here…lemme help you.” Not waiting for a rebuttal, Jake immediately stepped over her reclining legs, turned his back, and plopped down right on her ankles, straddling them. Neytiri looked bemused by his antics.

"What? What are you...AHH!!!! HN...Huheh-HEEE Heehee-Hee! NO! No PLEASE; HA-HA HA-HA!!"

The Omatikaya princess’ loud shriek scattered the nearby flock of tetrapteron into the salty air. Her grin threatened to split her cheeks open. Jake's fingertips were mercilessly prodding and caressing underneath her toes, and every single touch made her want to scream.

"Not that! G-get AWAY from MEE-HEE!!!" But her mate said nothing. Grinning, Jake bent all ten of his fingers...those damn Sky People with their extra digits...and scratched them up and down on her massive sky-blue soles.

“J-Jake!! My JAHAY-HA-HA-HA!!!” Neytiri tried to beg, but couldn't get the words out. Her voice leapfrogged through the entire octave scale, from bird chirps all the way down to breathy hyucks erupting from deep in her belly. She thrashed around frantically, her butt bouncing against the sand, and left a flurry of stinging open-palm slaps across her husband's back; even he could barely wrestle her down. Braids and beads tangled themselves like seaweed across her screaming face...how undignified it was, to constantly spit out strands of dreadlocked hair in between her bouts of tearful hysteria.

Jake didn't quit torturing her until she managed to lurch herself forward...the crunch burned her elongated stomach...and threw both of her hands at his armpits. He laughed and jumped aside at the unexpected tickle, before spinning around and scooping Neytiri into his arms. In a moment she was flat on her back once again, with Jake hovering over her and blotting out the sun, a toruk in his own right. The tremors in her chest slowed down, but her anger only boiled hotter. The smug, dopey jarhead smile of his...why didn't she hate it?

"I...*huff*...will...make you suffer for this...*wheeze*...Jake Sully," she hissed at her mate, flashing jagged fangs.

Rather than fear her, or even apologize, Jake simply tweaked her nose and pecked her on the forehead. What an asshole.

Maybe she could let him off the hook. Just this once.

******

[doctordune]

Square octopoid