#surely he just rubbed off on ratio and i just accidentally got the wrong side of the coin

[gemkun]

this is a joke right

[junk-and-clutter]

Baldor Kingsman:  slumped at Gryffindor's table with a tired sigh. He was glad to be done with classes, and now had to play the waiting game of Gretchen getting out of her classes. While he waited, he decided it was best to use the time wisely. He reached deep into his Extended backpack and pulled out a newspaper and a couple of pamphlets. Housing and flats. Flats. It was a little funny what they called apartments, but Americans and English people had different words for a lot of things, didn't make it wrong. He had to take the time to calculate the currency ratio, but even still, he was a little hard pressed to figure out what kind of work he could get here overseas that would support even the simplest of flats. Not as bad as America, but still. He swapped over to the Daily Prophet and skimmed through the listings. Maybe he'd have better luck on the magical side of society? Compared to most, when it came to Galleons and such, Baldor was broke as a joke, but at least he was more confident in finding work than trying to earn a keep among No-Majs.

Niveous Hexe: Niveous had told herself she was overthinking things -- life changes. && as unphased as she may look, as much as she's worked on perfecting the unbothered expressionless look currently settling on her face, she can't quite slip the lie by her own mind. It didn't help she could hear the dramatic flutters of papers like if he shuffled them enough they'll find what they're looking for. She wasn't sure what was louder : the thoughts in her head or the never-ending rustling of papers. She even questioned why does it even matter that it bothered her that much? Was giving up an option? It started to feel like one as she'd slump herself over faceplanting into the Gryffindor table. "I hope what your looking for is worth it."

Baldor Kingsman:  heard the thump of something hitting the table and glanced over at Hexe. "I mean, I sure hope it is Niv." He said, looking back at the newspaper. "Hey, you got any clue how much rooms over yonder at Hogsmeade run? Can't be too much, yea?"

Niveous Hexe:  Oh darn. She forgot to send in her Hogsmeade real-estate papers! She seemed to look straight into the wood. Either she must have looked like one if he asked that question or he was being serious right now. Giving out a sigh. "I'm sorry I'm not much help in that department of questions." She said as neutral as possible not wanting to sound rude. ". . there might be spaces people rent out that can't be to much. Perhaps." She didn't try to pry, but she was curious. She could feel the thoughts run through her head on the why would he need to know that particular question.

Baldor Kingsman:  nodded a little, taking a pencil and circling a listing a couple of times. "Yea, that's true. Don't reckon it'd be that bad." He mumbled distractedly, circling another.

Niveous Hexe: just now Niveous had some hesitation. Her brows furrowed. She'd shift upwards as her arms outstretched against the table. "You'll find it in time when you least expect it so don't stress too hard," Niveous tried to be encouraging. Knowing full well he was really hunting. The pencil marks on the newspaper were pretty evident but life always had a strange way of working out. "Another alternative is work and lodge places."

Baldor Kingsman:  nodded a little. "Yea, probably gonna be my best bet, huh?" He replied, sighing after a moment and rubbed his face. "Got dayum, I'm so tired..." He groaned. It was the weather. Rain rolled in and all Baldor wanted to do was crawl into bed or a comfy couch and just sleep the day away.

Niveous Hexe:  She wouldn't really know how to respond so she felt silence was better. She wasn't Baldor to know what he was searching for but if he needed a place to stay, then yes. If he was searching for something far more than those limits then that's something else entirely. Shifting from him to the window as her brown quartz orbs started at the window watching the rain in awe. She didn't even notice it was raining. Chuckling. Thinking about the way rain makes others sleepy. "It's a good day to be tired and for some of us take a little break?"

Baldor Kingsman:  He sighed a little. "Yea, maybe." He said, looking from his pile of research to the window as well. He couldn't help but feel a sense of...density. The air felt heavy. He had no clue what was going on, or that there was really anything actually going on to begin with. But still, he felt something on an instinctual level. A gut feeling. Or maybe he was just over thinking things and the weather was getting to him. "Maybe." He said again, then suddenly stood and stretched. "I'm gonna go get soaked." He said randomly, an adventurous grin growing on his face.

Niveous Hexe:  Niveous tried not to think too much. Sometimes getting stuck in one headspace is the worse battle. But what she found rather peculiar about him was one second he was tired the next he was energetic. She wondered if he was going to reverse himself the moment he stepped outside? Was the hype of seeing the rain revert back to tiredness? Boys were quirky, but they probably felt the same way about girls. "You say maybe a lot. Have a nice soak but just avoid the mud."

Baldor Kingsman:  grinned a little more. "Maybe." He mused, packing his things away and shouldering his bag. "It'll wake me up, that's for sure. Help me take my mind of some things, ya know?" He said, giving her a friendly wave before walking off.

Niveous Hexe:  She'd lowly hum. Amused. Knowing he did that on purpose but she wondered how many times he says maybe in a day accidentally. But that thought left her as easily as desiring a tray of brownies but a little too comfortable in the silence and watching the rain hit the window. "Good luck," she said in a mix of hoping he found what he was searching for outside and in flats all wrapped up in goodbye. She avoided the word as much as she could. But a tray of brownies sounded so. . . good right now. Eh. She didn't need them. Save it for another rainy day.

End.

[biotic-boshtet]

Aftermath - Chapter 6

Read on AO3

Start from the beginning

Years

Norah Jean comes to slowly at first, then lurching up as she registers the sound of several different alarms reverberating through the room. Instinctively she reaches up to turn off her hearing aids. The hearing aids aren’t there.

“Shepard, do you hear me? Get out of that bed now- this facility is under attack.”

She squints in the bright lighting, bare feet touching the floor just as a tremor rips through wherever she is. She wobbles, bracing herself on the bed until she can steady herself, accidentally pinning a lock of loose hair down with her hand, tugging uncomfortably. Why is her hair loose? It’s never loose, not even to sleep.

“Shepard. Your scars aren’t healed yet, but I need you to get moving. This facility is under attack.”

The voice over the intercom sounds familiar, but Norah Jean can’t place it. The room she’s in a freezing cold.

“There’s a pistol and your armor in the locker on the other side of the room, hurry!”

The sound of gunfire grows, and Norah Jean looks up to see a heavy mech tearing through a target she can’t see. Another rumble tears through the structure. Her whole body aches.

“Grab the pistol and armor from the locker. You don’t have time to wait around, Shepard! Grab your weapon and armor!”

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there, sheesh.”

“Shepard, we don’t have time for you to be difficult, get that armor on, now!”

Armor on. Four minutes. She’s gotten slow. When was the last time she put her armor on? Used to be sixty seconds. Doesn’t feel right either. Rubs wrong. Norah Jean absently rubs her right pauldron and freezes. There should be a gouge there. Her favorite gouge. She never got it replaced because she liked the way it looked, how it broke the clean lines of the iconic N7 stipe. Because only fools had perfectly maintained, scratch-free, dent-free armor all the time. The padding isn’t broken in yet, the ceramic plates are too shiny, and the joints are too stiff.

“This pistol doesn’t even have a clip.”

“It’s a medbay. You’ll have to find one yourself. Someone’s hacking security and trying to kill you.”

She falters for just a second when she spots the familiar black and gold insignias in the corridor, stooping to grab the clip from the floor. She’s not sure where she’s seen it before. It’s hard to fight the unease churning in her gut. She pushes it away as the beginning of a migraine blooms in the base of her skull. Keeps walking in armor that isn’t hers.

Taking out the mechs is easy enough, with clean shots to the head. Efficient. Quick. Automatic. Thankfully she hasn’t forgotten how to do that. The collar padding rubs uncomfortably on her neck. Norah Jean rips half a dozen strands of hair from a shoulder joint for the zillionth time.

After dozen more twists and turns and a lot more mechs shot down, Norah Jean finally runs into another person. And, by the looks of it, one she can actually help.

“Shepard? What the hell?”

She dashes into cover, crouching beside him. He’s a biotic, she knows instantly and cringes internally at the way his field rubs against her own, like a pair of balloons. “Looks like you could use a hand?”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were still a work in progress.”

“I just woke up. You probably know more than I do.” She snaps back at him.

“Right. Sorry about that. I’m Jacob Taylor, I’ve been stationed here for- Damn it!”

Another wave of mechs shows up. Both Norah Jean and Jacob make their moves. Clean shots to the head.

“Things must be worse than I thought if Miranda’s got you running around. I’ll fill you in, but we better get you to the shuttle first.”

She takes a deep breath, shoving her curiosity down. “Give me the abridged version, then.” She pops out of cover long enough to send a shockwave clear to the other side, scattering the mechs, blue glow subsiding as she ducks back down. The mechs that didn’t get blown clear off the platform get back up.

“Heh, pretty good for someone who just woke up.” Jacop pulls one of the remaining mechs into the air, dispatching it with a few shots. “Anyway, two years ago, the SR1 went down over Alchera after an attack by an unknown ship. Most of the crew survived, but you died. We put you back together.”

Norah Jean does the same with the very last mech within a few seconds. Biotics are the only thing that feel right. Everything else is different. Wrong. She died. But her biotics are a familiar buzz, humming underneath her skin like a live wire. Two years.

She follows Jacob through the next few rooms until they come across a man bleeding on the floor, and Norah Jean is struck with the same eerie familiarity she felt with the voice over the intercom, Miranda.

“Bastards got me in the leg.”

“I think…” She closes her eyes against the already dim light in the room. “I think I remember you, Wilson, right?”

“Yeah. That was me. How about we talk about this after we fix my leg?”

Her eyes flick up towards the hopefully stocked first aid station on the wall. She gets there and back before Wilson can complain too much. The applicator is different than she remembers, fumbles with it for a second before applying it correctly. She gives him a hand up.

“Thanks, Shepard. Never thought you’d save my life. Guess that makes us even now. I thought maybe I could shut down the security mechs, but whoever did this fried the whole system, completely irreversible.”

“We didn’t ask what you were doing. Why do you even have security mech clearance? You were in the bio wing.” Jacob crosses his arms and eyes Wilson.

“Weren’t you listening? I came here to try and stop this! Besides I was shot, how do you explain that?”

Norah Jean pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’re all fucking strangers to me, lets get someplace with a lower ratio of angry mechs, and then we can sort out whose fault this is.”

“Right. We need to find Miranda. We can’t leave her behind.”

“Forget about Miranda! She was over in D wing, the mechs were all over that sector. No way she survived.”

“A bunch of mechs won’t drop Miranda, she’s alive.”

“Then where is she? Why haven’t we heard from her? There’s only two possible explanations, she’s either dead, or she’s a traitor!”

“It doesn’t matter right now. Right now, we need to go! If Miranda’s as good as you say, she’ll probably be waiting for us at the shuttle bay.”

“You’re probably right, Shepard. Wilson, drop it, let’s go.”

The door on the other side of the room whooshes open and a squad of mechs marches through, guns drawn. Norah Jean swears under her breath.

“Wilson! I need you to overload the safety mechanisms on that container. It’ll take out the mechs and clear a path to the door.”

“You better be right.”

The crates explode easily, taking out all five mechs. Jacob stands up and turns to her.

“Okay, we took ‘em down, but this is getting a little tense. Shepard, if I tell you who we work for, will you trust me?”

“This really isn’t the time, Jacob.”

“We won’t make it if she’s expecting a shot in the back.”

“If you wanna piss off the boss, its your ass, Jacob.”

“The Lazarus Project, the program that rebuilt you, its funded and controlled by Cerberus.”

Cerberus. It finally clicks. The humanity first terrorist group. Black and gold. Fucked up experiments to “give humanity an edge”. Akuze. For a second all she smells is blood and acid, all she hears is the wind howling over empty sand. She blinks. Back to reality. Cerberus. Two years.

“I spent a good bit of time wiping out Cerberus labs. Why the change of heart?” Her corona flares and dies with her steady breaths, but her biotics remain under her control.

“Knew we shoulda replaced than damn implant.” Wilson mutters, eyeing her with nervously.

“Those answers are way above my paygrade, but the gist of it? Things change. The Alliance declared you dead. They gave up. Cerberus spent a fortune bringing you back. Look, I’d be suspicious too, but right now we have to work together. I thought you deserved to know what’s what. Once we’re off the station, I’ll take you to the Illusive Man. He’ll explain everything, I promise. But we have to get to the shuttles first.”

“Fine. Lead the way.”

Wilson stepped forward, punching in his security code on the door panel. “Come on, through here, we’re almost to the-“

The door opens, revealing a woman in a black and white catsuit. Her pistol is aimed squarely at Wilson’s chest.

“Miranda? But you were-“

Miranda pulls the trigger. “Dead?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“My job, Wilson betrayed us all.”

“Even if you’re sure, did he deserve that welcome?” Norah Jea’s corona flashes briefly before she smothers it down again.

“He sabotaged the security systems, killed my staff and would have killed us.”

“Are you sure about that Miranda? We’ve known Wilson for years, what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m never wrong, I thought you’d have learned that by now, Jacob.”

Shepard twitches her hand away from her gun. “Okay. What’s out next step.”

“We get on the shuttle and we go.”

“What about the rest of the people on this station?”

“This is the evac point, if they’re not here now, they’re not coming.”

“We can’t leave without knowing for sure, we have to go back and look.”

“Don’t you get it? The only one worth saving is you. Everyone else is expendable.”

“She’s right, we all knew the risks when we signed up. Without you, there’s no point to any of this.”

Expendable. The thought turns her stomach. She sighs. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this station to last a lifetime.” She died two years ago, and the people who brought her back were expendable. She needs a drink.

“Or two in your case.”

-

Norah Jean turns to Miranda. “I need at least a dozen hair pins or something. I’m not going anywhere until I can get this damn hair situated.”

Miranda sighs and digs into a belt pocket, pulling out its contents and examining them. “The best I can do is seven pins and a hair tie.”

“I can work with that.” She takes the pins and hair tie and braids her hair, out of practice hands moving slowly to make sure the braid is neat and tight. Tying off the end, she works it into a flat coil at the base of her neck, using the pins as frugally as she can. “There. As long as I keep the helmet on, it should hold up.” Her head is pounding, and the pins certainly aren’t doing her any favors, but the hair is dealt with for now. Maybe she should just cut it all off. Its been two years since she’s braided it.

She checks over the pistol and shotgun assigned to her before putting on her helmet and following Miranda and Jacob to the shuttle bay.

-

“What? Veetor is injured. He needs treatment, not an interrogation!”

“We won’t hurt him, we just need to see if he knows anything else. He’ll be returned unharmed.”

“Your people tried to betray us once already, if we give him to you, we may never get the intel we need.”

“Prazza was an idiot and he and his men paid for it. You’re welcome to take Veetor’s omnitool data, but please, just let me take him.”

“Tali, you don’t have to just take Veetor and go, we could work together, just like old times.” Norah Jean knows Tali’s answer, even before she asks, but she’s so desperate for something familiar, she’ll try anything.

“I want to, Shepard, but I can’t. I’ve got a mission of my own. It’s too important for me to abandon, even for you. When its over, if I’m still alive, we’ll see what happens.”

“Sounds dangerous, what are you up to?”

“I don’t think Cerberus needs to hear about it, but it’s in Geth space, that should tell you how important it is.”

Norah Jean nods, then turns back to Jacob and Miranda. “Veetor is traumatized, and he needs medical care. Specialized medical care. Tali will give us the omnitool data and take him back to the flotilla.”

“Understood, Commander.” She tries to ignore the icy note in Miranda’s voice.

“Thank you, Shepard, I’m glad you’re still the one giving the orders. Good luck out there, if I find anything out there that can help you, I’ll let you know.

-

Norah Jean stands in the semi dark as the QEC powers down, rubbing her temples. Two years. Gone. She died. The door opens behind her.

“Hey, Norah Jean, just like old times, huh?”

She can’t turn around fast enough, stumbling over her own feet to come face-to-face with her best friend. He’s wearing black and gold.

“Jeff!” Her voice cracks, and she knows her face is doing something ugly as she tries not to cry. He throws an arm around her shoulders, rubbing her back, and it’s all she can do to keep her composure as she hugs him.

“It’s okay, I won’t tell a soul that Commander Shepard is an ugly crier.”

“I thought I was all alone.” She pulls back enough to wipe her eyes. “I can’t trust anybody here. They’re all Cerberus.”

“Well, you’re not alone anymore. You’ve got me.”

“I can’t believe it’s really you.” She wipes her eyes again, sniffling as they leave the QEC room.

“Look who’s talking, I watched you get spaced!”

“I got lucky, there’s a lot of strings attached. How’d you end up here?”

“It all fell apart without you, Norah Jean, everything you stirred up? The council wanted it gone. They broke up the team, sealed records, and I was grounded. The Alliance took away the one thing that mattered most to me. Hell yeah, I joined Cerberus.”

“You really trust the Illusive Man?”

“I don’t trust anyone who makes more than I do, except you. But they aren’t all bad. Saved your life. Let me fly-“ He pauses, looking out the windows into the dark hangar. “And there’s this. They only told me last night.”

Norah Jean watches as the lights slowly illuminate the massive ship docked there. The Normandy. Only she’s twice her original size. Black and gold. The wrong insignia. Two years. The SR2.

“Its good to be home, huh, Norah Jean?”

“Yeah. I guess we’ll have to give her a name.”

-

The captain’s quarters were disgustingly huge. The empty space echoed and the fish tank was too loud. The lights didn’t turn all the way off. The personal bathroom was nice. Even if she didn’t recognize the ghost in the mirror. Two years.

The clothes in the closet fit her well. They aren’t hers. They’re all stiff and new. No familiar comfort of an undershirt too worn to wear under her uniform. Its all utilitarian, even the civilian clothes look like part of a matched set. The wrong colors. Black and gold stare her down everywhere she looks.

The desk is big. A model of the SR2 catches her eye. Then she sees the photo. She died two years ago, but the photo on her desk was taken mere weeks before it happened. She and Kaidan sit on the bench on the back porch of her parents’ house in Anchorage, doused in golden sunlight. Neither of them are looking at the camera. They’re so focused on each other that the rest of the world might as well not exist. Two years is a long time to be gone. That photo had only existed in two places, her own omnitool and Kaidan’s. The Norah Jean in that photo died. Maybe she doesn’t exist anymore. The frame goes dark when she turns her head away.

-

Dr. Chakwas would be lying to herself if she tried to say she hadn’t been waiting for the Commander to drop by. If very nearly felt like old times, the Commander’s boundless curiosity leading them through several rounds of questions. What she’s been up to the last two years, why she was here now, this and that. Then Shepard gets a look of sheepishness that would fit better on a new recruit than Commander Shepard, scuffing her boot on the deck and glancing around the medbay.

“Have you got another question, Commander?”

“You’ve got a pair of clippers in here somewhere, right, Doc?”

“Yes, they should be in a case on the shelf in the back.”

“I’m gonna borrow them, thanks.”

“Of course, Commander.”

-

The buzz of the clippers is almost as comforting as her biotics. Their weight in her hand feels good as she flips the switch on and off a few times. Turns them back on.

Her hair falls away as easily as those two years. Brown curls just barely brush her shoulders. She can’t place the feeling she gets as she looks in the mirror, recognizing a little more of the person who stares back. The lights are still too bright, but her head hurts just a smidge less.

-

When the Commander returns the clippers, gone is the three feet of rich brown curls, replaced by a bouncy bob, pinned back and away from her face. She carries herself differently, like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She seems surer of herself than she’d been a few hours ago.

Chakwas stops her before she gets out of the medbay door. “You know I was half worried you’d come back with a buzz-cut. Your new hair suits you.”

“Yeah? I figured it was time for a change. Thanks again, Doc.”

“Any time, dear.”

[vore-scientist]

Story Time

[SFW GT M/f platonic vore fluff]

A MINI TALE OF THE MYSTIC WOODS

A nice fluffy story with the half-giant wizard Yonah and Her Highness The Princess Sophia!

Summary: Some nice playful interaction ending with story time! I imagine it’s really nice to be read books while sitting in a stomach.

Warnings: uhhh very brief off-hand mention of se.x at the start of the story?? Unrelated to the vore, which is at the end of the story. Otherwise this is completely innocent and SUPER fluffy.

Enjoy! and if you like this story please give me feedback/reblog it to spread it around!

—

The princess Sophia sat in her suspended bed in a massive golden cage, gently rocking to and frow. She had propped up her pillows and was reading a very good book. The 8th book in the Stars Without Number series: a science fiction epic. Living in a fantasy world tended to make one crave stories of grand technology and other worlds out in the great expanse of space.

It was a little annoying to have a half giant wizard sitting on his bedroom floor staring at you. He’d just got back from a trip to Myran, his beloved’s, witch hut. Since she hadn’t been taken along she’d assumed they were gonna get it on, but apparently all he did was borrow some special type of magic spoon that he needed for a potion.

Now he sat, looking like a hungry puppy except she was the one in a cage.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sophia said, not even glancing at him, turning a page in the book.

“Oh?” Yonah said, his eyes literally sparkling.

She put the book to her side and turned to her friend.

“You’re thinking I’m the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen,” she smiled, “and you want to eat me.”

“Guilty as charged, princess,” he reached to open the cage door but Sophia chided him.

“I’m quite enjoying this book, Yonah. You can eat me after I finish this chapter.”

He still opened the door, and lay down to look through it as she picked up her book once more.

She was absolutely right. She was the most adorable human in existence. Well… Her younger sister Molly was also extremely adorable. Probably a smidge more. But Molly wasn’t here. And he couldn’t eat Molly.

He did not mind waiting. Just being with Sophia in silence was so pleasant he was in danger of falling asleep. But he did not, as he was also excited to eat her. She was in fact, his favorite snack, and wouldn’t dare let himself miss out.

Minutes passed. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. She was not that slow a reader. He rolled over to look at her better.

Sophia was still reading but as her eyes flicked to him briefly she was clearly holding back giggles. She flipped the page and he could see, even though it was miniscule for him, an obvious first page of a new chapter.

“You’re a brat!” he said, sitting up and snatching her out of the cage, she dropped the book.

“In my defense it’s a really good book!”

He hugged her to his face, drinking in her smell. A smell he could never ever tire of. However it was not time yet to eat her. Tasting came first. He kissed her, her stomach, her arms, her face; to get small bursts of flavor.

The princess, though sad to pause her reading, was delighted by the affection. She loved to be squished against his scruffy cheeks. His goatee, which was he kept in perfect evil fashion, was soft, comparably, as were his sideburns. It scratched a little, but that was ok. The effect was like she was being kissed by a large dog. 

Kissing turned to licking. At first he would flick out his tongue when he’d kiss a particularly ticklish spot. Her side and her neck being the prime spots. Soon the ratio flipped, and then there were barely any kisses, but Sophia was happy for a tongue bath. Yonah’s tongue was soft and warm, like a solid wave of tropical water.

Licking turned to nibbling. Very gently biting her side, just enough to make her laugh or squeak. With his tongue he would get an arm or leg in his mouth, hold it between his teeth, delicately almost grinding back and forth. An odd massage to be sure, and dangerous, but Yonah was practiced and Sophia would get his attention if need be.

At one point, when her left arm was trapped between molars, she reached out with her right and stroked one of his fangs. Yonah opened his mouth in a wide smile; releasing her arm, so she could admire his teeth properly. Slick with drool, but there was texture to the distinctly giant-folk canines; much longer and larger than a human’s. not that sharp, she couldn’t accidentally prick her finger on them. And even if she could, she wasn’t the king of princess with a “pricking the finger” curse.

For all his size, he looked so human, until he opened his mouth. Until he smiled. She did like his smile.

Finally the giant seemed satisfied and hungry. Only he didn’t get the vial of glass paste.

Holding the princess to his chest he reached back into the cage, in his fingers was the book. It was very small in his hands but he held it up to his face.

“What were you reading?” he asked, even though he could read the large print title.

“Stars Without Number Book 8: To Infinity and Beyond” Sophia said, leaning against her giant’s soft, warm body. She could hear his heart, feel it, strong and steady. /Soon/ she thought. /Soon I will be tucked away inside him just like his heart/

“Oh! I own that one in giant size!” he said, putting it back and standing up, still one hand on the princess. She smiled and had a good feeling about where this was going. “It’s barely noon, if you don’t want to nap I could read to you.”

“I would love that!” Sophia crawled up to Yonah’s shoulder as he headed to the living room.

The walls weren’t lined with bookshelves, though Sophia thought they should. Didn’t seem very  hermited wizard-esq to have so much empty wall space, or enchanted windows. Course, a lot of his books were smallfolk size. His collection of properly scaled books was extensive, and still could have filled up 5 or 6 shelves.

He had three. One for fiction. One for non-fiction. One for magazines. The book they wanted was fiction.

Currently the shelf displayed a bunch of alternate history books, on all four levels.

“I think… it was over here…” he put two fingers on the rightmost book of the 3rd shelf and swiped to the left. With a swish the books slid away, into the solid wood, but were followed by new books!

“No…” he swiped again.

“Oh wait, wrong level,” he repeated the motion on the fourth level.

“Got it!” he took it off the shelf, changed all the levels to display science fiction, and went to his armchair, placing the book on the coffee table.

“Now where were we?” he asked in a perfectly innocent tone, holding his hand out.

Sophia stepped into the waiting palm and sat down, facing Yonah. His eyes were bright and sparkling with anticipation. And deep affection. Such large brown eyes, very similar to her own, though hers had a little more green in them. She reached out a hand to stroke his nose with the back of her hand.

And he brought up his other hand, which held the vial of paste. A small drop, barely pea sized, was dabbed onto her forehead.

He kissed her middle one more time and whispered the spell, closing his eyes as she poofed into glass.

Then he opened his mouth and she crawled right in. The glass limbs were so much heavier than flesh and had a completely different texture.

Yonah used his tongue to help her to the back of his throat, at which point he tipped his head back. Before swallowing he took a deep breath, preparation for Sophia blocking his airways. Thankfully she was petit and gravity helped get her past his collar long before he would worry about suffocating. He held a hand to his throat to feel her slip down. Tracing her progress with his fingers, Sophia fell away. Becoming his.

The weight settled in his now full stomach, and he placed a hand over the spot.

“Mmmmmmmmmm” he sighed and closed his eyes, just focusing on Sophia as she got comfortable, pushing against his insides in the most pleasant manner.

As soon as her hands and face entered the chamber The princess cast a dim grey light. The darkness was just a bit to total and she wasn’t planning on sleeping. The beams danced across the curves of flesh that flexed and rolled.

Most folks tried to avoid ever seeing such a place. Or made it their mission in life to make sure no one else did, as it was technically a chamber that only promised a painful death unless the giant who owned it was merciful. Not that most folks eaten would have light with them. But to Sophia it was a welcome and familiar scene. Her personal hide-away.

And she placed her hands at the sides of the pharynx to push herself into the wizard’s stomach.

She mushed around like a cat for a while, longer than she needed to since she knew Yonah liked it. Before flopping down and stretching out, her joints making musical crinkle tinkles. The flesh embraced her and cuddled her, the pulse beneath almost talking to her, telling her to relax.

Yonah’s quiet voice rumbled down.

“What chapter were you on?” The chamber shifted as the giant reached for the book.

“Uhhhhh 8!” She said. It was 8 or 9 so she lowballed it.

Yonah wiggled, settling back into his chair in a similar manner to Sophia in his stomach. Just sitting up. And not in a stomach. His new position meant his gut was more squished, and Sophia was more squished! Little giggles came from his middle.

How delightful!  

“Ok,” he said, giving his stomach a nice rub and relishing the reciprocated action, “Chapter 8: Spectre of the Gun. The scene was typical. A desert planet. A small town. High noon. Two cyborg gunslingers. And our intrepid band of adventurers nowhere to be found, just a weird pillar of smoke several kilometres to the west…”

Ah. She had been on chapter 9. But she did not say anything, and just let the words wash over her.

What a perfect way to spend a lazy day.

[FIN]

[Thanks for reading! please reblog! for more mystic woods go to vore-scientist.tumblr.com/tagged/mystic+woods+story or search ‘mystic woods story’ on my blog! For thief stories only search “MW Thieves”]

[whifferdills]

please, do you have any comfort dw fic in you to give? or suggest? any pairing? (twelvedole's nice but niche so i don't expect there to be too much)

Twelvedole, aimless emotional hurt/comfort, i apologize if the ratio of hurt to comfort is not what you need but that’s what i wrote so ok, ~1.1k words, cuddlecore gen

(as far as suggesting, @resting-meme-face‘s twelvedole fic “Sheep Go To Heaven” is lovely and cuddly, if you haven’t read it go do so)

alternately: read on the ao3

Nardole was on his fourth cup of tea, second sleeve of biscuits, and fifth rewatched episode of Bake-Off when the Doctor stumbled out of their office and into the study. Wearing a different outfit, carrying that telltale exhaustion and defiance.

“Up late again, I see.” Nardole did his best to not sound prissy. Up Late, that was code for I know where you’ve been and who you were there with but I am too tired, frankly, to force the issue.

The Doctor sighed, rolled their shoulders, and opened their mouth to unfurl a sentence. It took a few syllables for Nardole to realize that he was in fact paying the correct level of attention, and they were speaking gibberish.

“Oh,” the Doctor said. Well, not ‘oh’ precisely, but in a tone of voice that indicated an ‘oh’. They smiled tightly, and dug deep into their coat pocket for the sonic screwdriver. They waved vaguely at the TARDIS, then let the screwdriver lay in their upturned hand, fingers curled loosely around the shaft, and stared at it as if it might have something to say about this situation.

“Ah. Yes, of course,” Nardole guessed.

“Turned the translation matrix off for a bit. You were taking a nap, I figured you wouldn’t notice.” They clenched their hand around the screwdriver, palming it back into their coat pocket with the sleight-of-hand flair of a mediocre street magician.

That hadn’t been Nardole’s guess. “I didn’t, not til just now. Why?”

“What?” The Doctor swiped the last of Nardole’s biscuits, shoving a handful into their mouth.

“Why’d you turn it off?”

The Doctor stared him down, the fire-and-brimstone effect somewhat muted by the spray of crumbs and chipmunk cheeks. They swallowed, and said: “You know why.”

Fair enough. Nardole just liked to hear the Doctor say it, for whatever reason. But - wait. “You speak the same language, though,” he said, mentally crossing his fingers that Guess #2 was more accurate than the first.

“Used to. Now…” They sighed, and deflated slightly.

Here was where Nardole noticed the Doctor was swaying, unsteady. A bad sign; the ‘things are somewhat worse than previously estimated’ alarm sounded in his head. And then he flinched, at the clumsy, glancing, maybe-accidental blow of the Doctor’s psychic sprawl.

(He’d had a telepathic spleen installed a while back. Neither of them had ever said anything about it, so he wasn’t sure if the Doctor knew, or if they did know whether they knew that he knew. This was either a rare gesture of intimacy and trust or a serious breach of privacy.)

(Wordless and unfathomable and as skittish as a feral cat, and it snapped back as quick as it came)

“I have a psychic spleen,” Nardole said.

The Doctor just glared at him, before dropping their gaze. Dropping in general, or drooping.

Sit down, Nardole thought, very hard, trying to focus his mental energies toward where his spleen might be located. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Please sit down before you fall down, please.

“Why’d you bother asking if you’ve already made up your mind?” the Doctor spat out. Oh, anger, what a surprise.

Nardole revved up his motor and, utilizing the power of surprise, gently but firmly toppled the Doctor onto the nearby sofa. “I wanted to hear you say it. Did she hurt you?”

“No. Not since - not ever. She’s not like that.” The Doctor closed their eyes, sinking down into the slightly lumpy cushions.

“You know I want to check.” You know I think you’re lying.

“With your special eyes.”

“Yes,” Nardole affirmed. “With my special eyes.”

Something sort of broke in the Doctor, there, and they loosened up just enough to go taut again, arms spread wide, eyes open and raised to the heavens. “Go ahead, then.”

Nardole squinted. “You could do with some rest, but that’s nothing new. And more vegetables - leafy greens? Are radishes the things with the…things, that do the thing? But you’re, um.” ‘Fine’ is still the wrong word. “Not physically damaged.”

“Happy?”

“Not particularly, no.” His spleen was itching, so he sat down next to the Doctor, lumpy cushions tilting and pulling the Doctor into his side.

Their breath caught, and then came back haltingly. They didn’t move. Nardole carefully, slowly let his arm slip around their back, curling his hand loosely around their upper arm. They didn’t move. He tugged them closer, and wriggled around until his arm was around their waist, and they didn’t move, although they were breathing more evenly now.

“Just because it’s not physical - ”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“- Doesn’t mean it’s not a problem.” Nardole rubbed his thumb in a circle against the Doctor’s coat, experimentally. Touch sensitive, a wounded cat. They’d done this before (they don’t talk about it).

They tensed, then relaxed, and then sort of melted, and Nardole cautiously took this as approval to continue. Full-on cuddling, though neither of them would ever announce it as such. He let the Doctor rest their head on his chest, kept drawing circles against them. Outer layers only. Maybe his other hand ruffling their hair, just a bit. Pulling slightly at the curls at their neck, in the fashion that neither would ever admit both of them liked for a variety of reasons.

“Turn it off again,” he said. Hands moving steady, as best he could maintain.

“The translation matrix?”

“Yeah. You know English, right? I’m from a human colony, British, I think I remember. Wouldn’t mind learning a few Gallifreyan phrases, on the off-chance I meet another one of your folk.”

The pulse-out, again, that rough incoherent mental burr. And a retreat, and the Doctor’s arm clasped around his middle. “An educational experience,” they said, hesitantly.

“You’re the professor.”

The Doctor fidgeted, squirmed about til they unearthed the sonic screwdriver, and then flicked it at the TARDIS. The ship hummed in response.

“A nice salad, I think. For tea. Or, well, it’s gone on breakfast now, but you know.” His voice felt fuller in his ears, and just slightly off, not routed through the ship. A rusty, creaky language.

“Mmm,” the Doctor responded. And then something else, unintelligible, like Welsh almost but obviously not Welsh. Space-Welsh.

“Let me guess.”

“Yeah?”

“'Fuck salads, let’s get kebabs’.”

The Doctor huffed out a laugh, leaning into his embrace. “Something like that, yeah. Sure.”

(They don’t talk about it, they never do. There’s something to be said for honest bullshit, though. He hears his old language creak through his lungs and the Doctor’s halting, probably-broken Gallifreyan mumbled into his waistcoat. “Eggs. Sauteed spinach,” he says, squeezing them just a bit tighter. “With garlic. Tomatoes, maybe. We’ve got them in, because I went grocery shopping this time, not you, Mr. Donuts And A Single Bulb Of Fennel. Do you have a word for fennel? Probably not. Just substitute the word for ‘idiot’.”)

(The Doctor hums and pulls closer, reciting something under their breath. Nursery rhyme, or school-yard taunt, or grocery list; one of those.)